


Pulling Strings

by pipermca



Series: Black on White on Black [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, IDW-based AU, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Pain, Post-War, Rape/Non-con Elements, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: The rebuilding of Cybertron continues, and the next city project is dear to Prowl’s spark. But some mechs want only to profit from the project in any way – and by any means – they can. And they’re not above removing any obstacles that stand in their way... Obstacles like Prowl.





	1. New Praxus

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel of Anamnesis and The Ghost of the Howling Plains. While it's not necessary to have read either story to enjoy this one (I hope!), they may help to provide some background as to what Prowl and Jazz have been through.
> 
>  **Note** : This story is darker than any of the previous stories in the series.

Most of the notes were there, in his helm. He could hear them. He could tap his pede to their rhythm. They sounded great! But whatever should come next just... wasn’t coming. 

Jazz set his digits on the keyboard again, playing the chords he had figured out. With a determined twist of his mouth, he played the notes once more and then stopped, staring at the data pad propped on the stand. He brought his elbows up to the keys, where they landed with jarring discord, and rested his helm in his hands. 

“Come on,” he muttered. “I heard ya so clearly on my way home last night. What comes next?” he asked the keyboard.

Upon hearing a soft chime from the door of the flat, Jazz sat up and turned around on the bench to see his conjunx endura enter the main room. “Prowl!” Jazz exclaimed, jumping to his pedes. He checked his chronometer and frowned. “You’re home really early... Is everything all right?”

Prowl set a stack of data pads down on his desk near the window and turned to Jazz. “Everything is just fine, Jazz,” he said, his door wings quivering with barely contained enthusiasm. 

Jazz crossed the room, taking Prowl in his arms and planting a firm kiss on his lips. Prowl returned the kiss eagerly, pressing into Jazz. This close to the Praxian, Jazz could feel excitement rippling through the mech’s field. He grinned. “A’ight, spill it. What’s so ‘fine’ that you’re vibrating like an overcharged turbofox?”

A brilliant smile crossed Prowl’s faceplates, lighting up his optics. “There has been an exciting development at work. I wanted to tell you personally before you saw it on the news.” He kissed Jazz back, then turned to walk into the kitchen area. Prowl stuck a single digit in the air in a ‘hold that thought’ motion. “But first, I need to get us some celebratory high-grade.”

“Something exciting... at work?” Jazz frowned, following Prowl into the kitchen. He wracked his processor, trying to figure out what could possibly be exciting at Prowl’s work. As a coordinator for the Ministry of Reconstruction, Prowl played a role in the rebuilding of Cybertron: seeking approval for project plans, attending planning meetings, handling contracts, coordinating the work crews, managing the requisition orders, and creating reports. Any way that Jazz defined Prowl’s work, “exciting” was not a word he would use. 

Jazz watched as Prowl pulled the most expensive bottle off the shelf and poured two glasses. “Fine, I’m stumped. What’s got ya so worked up? Did they decide to stop working on Kaon?” The old Decepticon capital was the second major project after the rebuilding of Iacon for the Ministry of Reconstruction, mostly to placate any ex-Decepticons who still harboured resentment towards the new ruling Council and Lord Starscream. 

Prowl handed Jazz a glass. “Yes... But that is not the news, Jazz. Kaon is nearing the point where any further development can be left to its inhabitants. But with the work on Kaon completed, the next project has been chosen. It was announced just a few groons ago.” Prowl tapped his glass against Jazz’s and then held his up, his optics sparkling and his door wings spread wide. “The next project will be New Praxus.”

“New Praxus!” Jazz’s mouth hung open for a moment, then he wrapped Prowl in a tight hug, careful of the glass in his hand. “That’s... that’s wonderful, love!” 

Prowl hugged Jazz to him, then pressed a kiss against Jazz’s audial as they pulled apart again. He took a sip from his glass. “I am quite pleased,” he said, his vocalizer purring. “There were many convincing arguments for having Vos be the next project, but a poll we commissioned of citizens showed that a majority of Cybertronians believe that Praxus, a neutral city at the start of the war, should be the next city to be rebuilt.”

“And ya had no hand in convincing the Council?” Jazz asked, tilting his helm slightly, a grin crossing his lips.

“As part of my sentence, I am not permitted to advocate for any specific government action,” Prowl reminded Jazz. “However, with the addition of the poll results that I…” Prowl cleared his vocalizer. “…that I casually mentioned to Deputy Minister Avalanche over lunch five orbital cycles ago...” He trailed off and gave Jazz a sly smile.

Jazz laughed, taking a sip from his own glass. “Frag, mech, ya sure know how to dance a line,” he said. 

“You are the dancer, Jazz,” Prowl said, his door wings fluttering. He followed Jazz out to the living area, where they sat on the couch. “I simply organize and relay facts so that the Ministry and Council can act. No more.”

“Whatever ya call it, you’re good at it,” Jazz replied.

Prowl’s field, while still buzzing with eagerness, calmed slightly as he took another sip from his glass. “There is one thing I need to talk to you about, though,” Prowl said. “The work on Kaon began several vorn before you… before you were discovered,” he said gently. “Work was already well underway when you were recovered.”

Jazz nodded, patting Prowl’s knee comfortingly. He and Prowl had been reunited for about two hundred vorn now, but Prowl still got quiet whenever he was reminded of the time before Jazz’s frame had been discovered. Jazz knew that the thought of Jazz’s spark and frame, lying crushed and lost under the destroyed Decepticon base for twelve-hundred vorn, always sent a chill through Prowl. “Yeah, Iacon was already finished, and Kaon was well on its way once I got my wits about me again,” Jazz said. 

Prowl flicked a wing at Jazz in understanding. “The first few vorn of a new project are extremely busy for me,” he said. “I play a key role in reviewing proposals from construction teams, matching proposals with requirements, evaluating contractor readiness for such a large project, and collecting that information into review packages for the Deputy Minister and the Council.” He looked at Jazz and grasped for his hand. “I am afraid that I may be working more than usual for most of the upcoming vorn, until the contracts are finalized,” he added, tilting his wings to an apologetic angle.

“Aww, is that all, mech?” Jazz laughed. He squeezed Prowl’s hand, then brought it up to his lips for a kiss. “I know how important this is, especially to you,” he said, letting go of Prowl’s hand and brushing his digits across the top of one of the Praxian’s door wings. He grinned when he felt the wing tremble beneath his touch. “If we have to, I’ll get ya to put some time in your schedule every few deca-cycles just so we can catch up. It’ll be fine.”

Smiling fondly at Jazz, Prowl finished the high-grade in his glass. “Thank you for being so understanding, Jazz,” he said. “And scheduling a date night is an excellent idea that I will be sure to implement. I promise I will make it up to you once the contracts are signed.”

“I’ll hold ya to that,” Jazz said with a good-humoured growl. “And besides… I’ve got a lot of work of my own comin’ up over the next while. I agreed to perform at three more parties, and that ad company commissioned another jingle… Not to mention my regular gigs.”

“I told you that once word got out about your skills, you would have no trouble securing steady work,” said Prowl, collecting the empty glasses and taking them to the kitchen to be cleaned. 

Jazz slumped back on the couch and stared at the keyboard. “Yeah, well, it would be great, except that I’m a little stuck on that commission,” he said. “It’s so strange. I heard it so clearly on the way home from the club last night… I should have written it down then, but I didn’t want to disturb ya.”

“Thank you for the consideration, but I do not think it would have bothered me too much,” Prowl said, settling at his desk and sorting through the data pads he had brought home. “I never tire of hearing you play.”

Jazz shrugged and said, “You were already in recharge, and I – “ Jazz stood up suddenly, his visor brightening. He hummed, twirling his digit. 

“Jazz?”

“That’s it! I got it!” he exclaimed, launching himself at the keyboard. He played the notes he had been stuck on earlier, and then added the next phrase. “Yes!” He played the whole sequence together, frantically tapping the data pad to add the notes to the score.

Prowl tilted his helm as he listened to the musical phrase again. “That is very catchy,” he said. 

Raising his arms in victory, Jazz stood up and marched over to Prowl’s desk. “Thanks, Prowler,” he said, wrapping his arms around Prowl’s shoulders and nuzzling his helm. “Turns out all I needed was for my muse to come home.”

* * *

Jazz unlocked the backstage door of the club and let himself in, carefully relocking the door behind him. In the early afternoon before it opened, Visages was quiet. However, the stillness allowed Jazz to hear the voices chattering in conversation in the front.

Rounding the corner of the stage, Jazz saw a small crowd gathered at the bar. Mirage was behind the bar, cleaning glasses and preparing mixers. Sitting on the other side of the bar on stools were Blaster and Smokescreen. The host mech was tapping on a data pad, probably putting some last minute touches on the evening’s entertainment schedule. Smokescreen nursed a cube of energon as he chatted with Orion Pax, who leaned casually against the bar next to him.

“Well, well, the gang’s all here!” called Jazz. The other mechs looked up and greeted the racer as he set down his instrument case and took a seat at the bar. “What’re ya doing, lettin’ all this riff raff in here before ya open, Raj?” he asked the blue mech behind the bar, gesturing at Smokescreen and Orion Pax. “I’ll take a tall cube of energon, please.” 

Mirage shook his helm as he finished drying a glass and turned to fill it. “If you’re talking about riff raff, maybe you should take a look in the mirror,” he said with a smile.

“Are you just going to take that, Jazz?” Smokescreen said, laughing.

Blaster frowned at his data pad and then looked up at Jazz. “You know you’re not scheduled tonight, right?” 

“It’s too bad he’s not,” Mirage said, sliding a cube across the bar to Jazz. “We’d be guaranteed a full house if he was.”

“Nah, this particular piece of riff raff has a gig on the other side of the city tonight,” Jazz said. “I figured I’d sneak out early and get some fuel before I head out. Prowl won’t be home until late, so there was no point in waitin’ for him.”

“How is Prowl doing?” Orion Pax asked. “I haven’t seen much of him lately.”

Jazz took a drink from his cube before answering. “You and me both, mech,” he said.

Smokescreen frowned at that. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yeah!” Jazz saved his hand in a calming gesture. “Everything’s fine. He’d warned me that he was gonna be crazy busy right now, what with tryin’ to organize the construction contracts for the New Praxus project.”

Orion’s optics brightened in a smile. “I spoke to him about the new project shortly after it was announced. He was certainly thrilled.”

“You’ve got no idea, Orion,” Jazz said. “The cycle it was announced he was practically bouncin’ off the walls.” He flicked a glance at the dubious set of Smokescreen’s door wings and chuckled. “Well, I mean he came home from work early to get a glass of high-grade before getting right back to work... Which is bouncin’ off the walls, for Prowl.” 

Smokescreen laughed. “Ok, I’ll give you that.”

“Anyway, Prowl’s been scarce for almost two full orbital cycles now. He’s gone to work when I wake up, and he’s already in recharge by the time I get home,” Jazz said, doing his best to suppress any frustration that might have leaked into his field. “I mean, our schedules didn’t mesh well before this, but with the hours he’s puttin’ in, we might as well be livin’ in separate flats. But it’s all right,” Jazz hastened to add, seeing the expression on his friends’ faceplates. “We’re fine! Prowl schedules a date night for us once every few deca-cycles. He even shuts off his comms so that no one can call and interrupt us,” Jazz added with a suggestive smirk.

Smokescreen finished off his cube and stood to leave. “If you can, see if you can get Prowl out to my track some time. It might be a good idea to let him blow off some steam. Give me some warning and I can reserve a private slot for you two.”

“Sure thing, Smokey, and thanks,” Jazz said. “I’ll keep it in mind!”

* * *

Prowl gripped the forearm of the slim, red mech that greeted him. “Hardhelm, I presume? My designation is Prowl. It is nice to meet you in person, finally.”

“Likewise,” said the mech. “My assistants: Blueprint and Spinup.” Hardhelm indicated the two mechs standing behind him: a large, black and purple Praxian and a smaller green mech with a yellow visor. “We look forward to working with you to rebuild Praxus,” he added with a glance at Prowl’s door wings.

“I also look forward to working with you, should your firm be selected for the project,” Prowl replied, carefully emphasizing the second half of his sentence. “You are one of four firms to make the short list for consideration.”

“Of course,” Hardhelm said, ushering Prowl into a large office. 

The three mechs seated themselves at the meeting table that was off to the side of the desk. “Would you care for anything? Filtered high-grade, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” said Prowl, bringing out a handful of data pads and arranging them on the table in front of him. He passed one pad to each of the other three mechs. “I would like to begin by going over the requirements of the Council’s plans. The Ministry of Reconstruction will require detailed information regarding your firm’s readiness to take on this project. Any missing or incomplete information may jeopardize your application.” 

“We understand,” replied Hardhelm, glancing at the data pad. “But I am sure that you’ve already assessed our readiness in our initial application?”

Prowl nodded, agreement set in the tilt of his wings. “Yes. But this will be more of a deep-dive into your firm’s finances, past projects, and possible conflicts of interest. With high-profile projects such as this one, the Council does not want any surprises coming out in the press after the contracts have been signed.”

“Perfectly understandable,” said Hardhelm. His helm was tilted down as if looking at the data pad, but Prowl caught him glancing over to Spinup. 

Spinup had not looked away from Prowl from the moment they had met, nor had he said a word. He sat with his hands folded in front of him, his visor fixed on Prowl. Strange. Prowl could not sense even a flicker of the green mech’s field, even though they sat just across the table from one another. 

Prowl spared another glance at Spinup before looking back to Hardhelm. “After the Ministry receives that information, we will begin a detailed review of each firm’s proposal. We will then compile that information, from all four firms, into a final report for the Council to make a final decision.”

“And then construction of New Praxus can begin,” said Blueprint, speaking for the first time. He smiled at Prowl. “Can I assume that you are as excited as I am to see our home rise again?”

It took every ounce of control for Prowl to suppress the eager quiver of his wings. “I admit that I am pleased by the Council’s decision,” he said evenly. “However, much work remains to be done before construction can begin.”

“Of course,” said Hardhelm. He smiled at Blueprint and Prowl. “But I can only imagine what it must feel like to be this close to seeing the resurrection of a place you loved.”

Prowl almost smiled as an image of Jazz’s face flashed before him. “I believe I already know what it is like to have something you love dearly returned to you.”

“Well, even if you do not want anything to drink to celebrate this, I think I do.,” Blueprint said with a broad smile. “Spinup, can you help me get drinks for the rest of us?”

Prowl watched the two mechs get up from the table, and cross the office to a small bar that was set up in the corner behind Prowl. He turned back to Hardhelm. “Before we begin, do you have any questions regarding the process?”

Tilting his helm, Hardhelm said, “My understanding is that if, at the end of that selection process, only one firm remained, they would receive the contract by default.”

“Yes.” Prowl frowned. “But that is unlikely at this stage. All four firms – yours included – have already passed a rigorous set of checks and reviews intended to prevent that from happening.”

Hardhelm laced his digits together and rested his hands on the data pad in front of him. “What could we do to ensure that it **would** happen?”

Prowl’s wings hiked up above his shoulders. “I am not sure I understand what you are asking.”

“You have reviewed our initial application. You saw that our firm is in an excellent position on all fronts to make this project work.” Hardhelm smiled up at Blueprint as the black mech handed him a glass of high-grade. “And our firm employs more Praxians than the other three firms combined.” 

Keeping a tight rein on his field, Prowl looked between Hardhelm and Blueprint. “Your firm is in an excellent position, but so are the other three. And workforce composition is not one of the criteria the Council will use to make their decision.”

"Oh, we are aware of that,” said Hardhelm smoothly. “But it certainly would be a feel-good story for the press, would it not? Praxians helping rebuild Praxus?”

“While I don’t doubt that some members of the Council would love to see that spin to the story, it has no relevance to this conversation,” Prowl said, picking up his data pad. “I am simply here to go over the requirements for the next stage of your application. If you do not have any further questions…”

“Prowl. We understand that you are a mech of logic, and that you can see the benefit in applying pressure in the right places to make things go your way.” Hardhelm leaned forward towards Prowl. “If you were able to ensure that we received the contract – pulling a few strings here and there – we would ensure that you were well compensated for your assistance.”

“Are you attempting to bribe me?” asked Prowl, his wings flaring in astonishment. He was just as offended by the insinuation that he could bought as he was by how clumsily the offer was made.

With a tilt of his wings, Blueprint twisted his face into a grimace. “That’s such an ugly word. We prefer ‘come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’”

Finally allowing the anger that had been building in him to flash out into his field, Prowl flicked his door wings back and stood up. “I believe we are done here,” he said, grabbing his data pad from the table. 

Prowl tried to open a comm line to send a message to his office, informing them to withdraw Hardhelm’s firm from consideration immediately, but he realized that his comm signal was blocked.

“I am so sorry to have to do this the hard way,” said Hardhelm, also standing up from the table. He had pulled a blaster out from under the table and trained it on Prowl. “This could have worked out so well for both of us.” 

Long-disused battle protocols spun up, and Prowl took a backwards step away from the table, away from Hardhelm and Blueprint. He glanced behind him, but the third mech was nowhere to be seen. Where was Spinup? “You stood a good chance of winning the contract,” Prowl said, lowering his door wings defensively. Prowl had not carried a weapon in vorn, but now he desperately wished that he had a sidearm. “There was no need to resort to this.” 

“I’m afraid that’s a chance we simply couldn’t take, not at this stage,” said Hardhelm. “We have too much riding on this contract.” 

Prowl suddenly became aware of a mech standing behind him within range of his door wing sensors. Before he could turn, he felt something hard jam into his neck cords. Prowl screamed as a jolt of electricity from a stasis rod shot through him, and he felt every actuator in his frame lose power. The world went sideways as he crumpled to the ground with a clatter.

Prowl’s HUD scrolled warning after warning as he saw Hardhelm’s pedes come into his field of vision. “Such a shame, but not unexpected,” Hardhelm murmured. Louder, the mech said, “Take him offline. Let’s get this over with.”

Prowl felt another press at his neck as someone jammed a connector into his medical port. The world went dark and silent as his optics, audials, and finally his processor shut down.


	2. Changes

Humming a snippet of the last song from his set that evening, Jazz strolled up to the door of the flat. The party had gone much later than he had expected, but he had picked up two more possible gigs from guests. He was pretty sure this is what Blaster called ‘working the crowd’ and Prowl called ‘networking,’ but whatever it was, it was an endless source of new work. He couldn’t wait to tell Prowl, whenever he saw him next.

He keyed open the door and winced at the soft chime that it made. He palmed it shut behind him, and padded silently into the living room to set his electro-bass on the floor near his keyboard.

As he passed through the galley kitchen, he paused. Something was not right. He strained his sensors, listening and feeling for the slightest thing wrong. 

Suddenly, he realized what the problem was: the flat was too quiet. Normally, even if Prowl was in recharge, he could hear a soft hum from his idling engine. But tonight, there was nothing.

Frowning, Jazz went up the hallway to their rooms. The door to Prowl’s room was open. Poking his head into the room, Jazz saw that Prowl was not on the berth.

“Lights, ninety percent,” Jazz said. He cycled his optics in the suddenly bright lights of the flat. “Prowl?” he called.

He checked his own room, his washrack, Prowl’s washrack, behind and under both berths. He looked behind Prowl’s desk, and out on the balcony overlooking Iacon City. Sure enough, the flat was empty.

Pinging their private comm line, Jazz waited for a response. Nothing. He tried Prowl’s office – maybe the mech had lost track of time? No answer. With a crawling anxiety, Jazz checked his own comm for missed messages. Maybe something had come in and he’d neglected it while he was performing. 

Nope. Nothing. 

Jazz paced from the living room, down the hallway to his room, and back again, wracking his processor. It was very late. Prowl should have been home groons ago, even with the crazy hours he’d been working. And even when he did work really late, he had never forgotten to comm Jazz to let him know, and to provide him with an ETA. 

Staring out the large window at the city, Jazz tried to think of where Prowl might be. He wasn’t at his office, but he’d mentioned that he had a series of meetings this deca-cycle that would take him all over the city. 

Had he been in an accident?

Jazz flipped on the entertainment unit and skimmed through the news feeds, looking for any reports of an accident or traffic snarl. He hadn’t encountered any traffic on his way home from the party, but perhaps Prowl had gone a different way.

Frag, he didn’t even know where Prowl’s meetings were.

Should he comm the Enforcers? Jazz knew that you couldn’t file a missing mech report until the mech had been missing for a full cycle, but Jazz had heard Prowl leave the flat this morning while he was still trying to get some recharge. Maybe he could file a report in the morning. 

What if something had happened to Prowl? Maybe he should comm the medical centres? Which one? All of them? What would he ask them? “Hey, my conjunx is runnin’ really late, did anyone turn in a smokin’ hot Praxian?” 

Jazz wrung his digits together. “Get a grip, Jazz,” he muttered, falling down onto the couch. He scrubbed at this faceplates. “Prowl is a big mech. He can take care of himself. Surely –“

The door to the flat chimed softly, and Jazz heard it slide open.

“Prowl?” Jazz tore around the corner into the hallway. “Prowler!” He launched himself at the Praxian, wrapping his arms around him. He let his field swirl around Prowl, filled with relief and exhaustion. “Frag mech, where were you? I was worried sick.”

Prowl allowed the embrace for a moment before gently pushing Jazz back to look at him. “I am sorry, Jazz,” he said. His door wings slanted down apologetically. “I lost track of time, and I missed your comms.”

Jazz stroked a hand down Prowl’s helm and leaned back to look him in the optics. “S’alright. I’m just glad you’re ok.” He leaned forward and kissed Prowl firmly. 

It felt like he was kissing a drone. Prowl’s lips didn’t move against his, and the mech’s field was pulled in so tightly it was unreadable. Jazz broke the kiss and pulled back to look at Prowl again, frowning slightly. “Hey... Are ya sure you’re ok?”

“Yes, Jazz,” replied Prowl after another pause. His optics flickered slightly. “I am fine. I am just tired. It has been a very long day.” He smiled slightly, and placed a quick peck on Jazz’s cheek. 

Laughing, Jazz gave Prowl another hug and stepped away. “Yeah, I guess it has been. For both of us. And here I am, keepin’ ya up even longer. Sorry about that.” He trailed his fingers down Prowl’s arm. “I was just…” He laughed, finally letting go of his anxiety. “I think I was just jumpin’ to worst case scenarios. Ya know how I am."

Prowl stared at Jazz for a long moment, then turned and walked into the living room. He set a stack of data pads on his desk, then turned to look at Jazz again. “I am sorry for worrying you,” he said with another downward tilt of his wings, and walked past him towards his room. “Good night, Jazz. Recharge well,” he said as he passed him.

Jazz watched Prowl enter his room and close the door. He frowned, then shrugged. Prowl had been awake longer than he had. The mech probably was exhausted, just like he’d said. 

They could catch up later.

* * *

Jazz sang softly along with the melody that he was plucking from the laser harp. The harp wasn’t one of his better instruments; at best he could pick out a simple song, but anything more complex always eluded him. Still, the group that had asked him to play with them next deca-cycle had a spot for a harp player that needed to be filled, and Jazz had agreed without thinking. 

So now, he practiced.

He hit a wrong note and stopped. Backing up a few lines in the music, Jazz started again, trying to teach his digits the correct placement for this part of the song.

He hit the wrong note again and blew air from his vents.

“Could you **please** stop making that racket?”

Surprised, Jazz looked up at Prowl. The Praxian sat at this desk behind a stack of data pads, scowling at the musician. “Sorry?” Jazz asked, caught off guard.

“That noise! It is bad enough when you are playing that raucous din you call music, but when you cannot even put a string of notes together it is just awful.”

Jazz was momentarily stunned into hurt silence. “I… Sorry, Prowl. I thought ya liked my playin’.”

Prowl grabbed another data pad from the pile in front of him and began scanning it. “It is very distracting! I have a lot of work to do, and all of that noise is making it very difficult.” He glowered at the data pad. “I would have stayed at the office to work had I known you were going to be home tonight.”

“...it’s my off night,” Jazz said softly. He stared at Prowl for a klik longer, still flabbergasted at Prowl’s outburst. When the mech didn’t look back up at him, Jazz set the harp into its stand and stood up. “I’ll... uh, just get out of your way tonight. I’m real sorry for botherin’ ya, Prowler.”

Prowl did not even look up as Jazz let himself out.

* * *

“What’s wrong?”

Jazz looked up from his drink into Mirage’s concerned face. “What?” he asked blearily.

“While I’m happy seeing you on a night that you’re not working, it is a little concerning watching you nurse that glass of mid-grade like you’re afraid it’s the last one you’ll ever have,” Mirage said, leaning on the counter across from Jazz. “You’ve looked like slag ever since you walked in. What’s wrong?”

Frowning into his glass, Jazz took another sip. He shrugged. “Just… Prowl. I think he’s stressed about work. He snapped at me tonight. I just came here to get outta his way for a while,” he said, looking back up at Mirage. 

“Prowl snaps at lots of mechs,” Mirage said, drying another glass. “It’s kind of his thing.”

Jazz exvented. “He never snaps at me,” Jazz said quietly.

“Never?” Mirage asked dubiously. 

“Well…” Jazz shrugged again. “Ok, maybe he does, sometimes. But not like this. This seemed... different.”

“And you said you think it’s because he’s stressed?” Mirage frowned at this. “But... Prowl thrives on stress. He lives for it. If he’s not stressed about something, he’s offline.” He leaned on the counter again, focused on the Polyhexian. "He’s different how?”

Jazz frowned, trying to put his recent impressions of Prowl into words. “He’s... grumpy. Standoffish. Normally we’d talk a bit whenever we caught each other at home, but... It’s almost like he’s upset at havin’ to even deal with me.” Jazz scrubbed his faceplates with his hands. “I dunno, maybe I’m just bein’ overly sensitive since we haven’t spent much time together lately.”

As Mirage considered this, Jazz received a comm request from Prowl. He sat up straight again and held a digit up to Mirage in a ‘just a klik’ gesture. ::Hi, Prowl.::

::Jazz. My deepest apologies for how I acted tonight.:: Prowl’s message came through tagged with several glyphs indicating sincerity. ::I behaved horribly, and I have no excuse for it. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.::

Jazz lowered his helm before answering. ::It’s ok. I know you’ve got a lot of things goin’ on right now.::

::I need to recharge now, but I will leave a cube of energon on the counter for you for when you return tonight. Good night, Jazz.::

Smiling at the still half-full glass of energon in front of him, Jazz shook his helm. ::Thanks, Prowler. Have a good night.::

Looking up at Mirage, who was waiting patiently, Jazz gave a half shrug. “That was Prowl. He apologized.” He chugged the last of his glass and stood up. “I better get goin’ anyway. Thanks for listenin’, Mirage.”

“I run a club. It’s part of the job description. And besides, you’re my friend.” Mirage waved. “Good night, Jazz.”

* * *

Prowl watched.

Glimpses of clarity. Jazz looking at him, concern evident in his expression. Avalanche nodding during a meeting. Stacks of data pads. Spreadsheets and reports.

The feeling of someone rifling through his memories, through what he knew. Someone drawing on his processing power to make plans. Someone wearing him like a cloak.

In between these glimpses, there was darkness. Someone or something would send the darkness crashing over him in waves, dragging him down into the inky depths. 

Prowl waited.

Slowly, the waves grew less intense. He was able to keep above them for longer, to see more of what was happening around him. He heard the words coming out of his vocalizer. He saw the actions his frame was being forced to make. He began putting the pieces together. He realized what the end game was.

Greed.

Prowl seethed.

 **Greed.** Simple avarice! 

He watched as Hardhelm and Blueprint met with his frame (and its driver), planned their next steps, and manipulated the work that Prowl had done before. Slowly but surely, they made sure that all of the other firms still in the running for the construction of New Praxus were going to be eliminated from contention... Which meant that Hardhelm’s firm would win the contract by default. They would profit from their crimes, while Prowl would be discarded like trash.

No one suspected a thing... Except perhaps Jazz.

Jazz.

Oh... Jazz.

Prowl saw the looks that Jazz gave him. At first they were patient. Then they became irritated. Then longing. The corners of Jazz’s mouth with twitch downward when he looked at Prowl before lifting back to their usual smile. But the smile looked more and more forced as time went on. 

Prowl knew he had to do something. Try anything. Fix this, somehow. Fix it, some way.

Prowl tested.

When he felt almost clear of the oily blackness that usually kept him quiescent, he could nudge his puppetmaster. Only slightly at first: getting him to turn his helm turn to look at something, or grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter in the kitchen. Little things. 

He couldn’t push too hard. One time when Prowl tried to actually say something, he was shoved down so far it took him a whole deca-cycle to claw his way back up again, and even afterwards he could sense a wary watchfulness. So he kept his actions small and seemingly insignificant, things that his captor would do on his own without thinking. Pushing the record button on a data pad during a meeting. Creating a backup of a spreadsheet laden with forged numbers. Then he would retreat, pulling back into the depths where he had been trapped. 

When he wasn’t flexing his influence or testing the bonds that held him down, Prowl watched and mourned. Jazz knew something was wrong, but Prowl had no way of telling him. No way to warn him. No way to comfort him. No way to apologize for the way Prowl’s jailor was treating Jazz.

Jazz would miss Prowl once he was discarded, of course. If only there was some way to get him a message...

Prowl ached for Jazz. And Prowl hoped that missing him after he was gone was the extent to which Jazz would be hurt.


	3. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains what could be considered dub-con plug-n-play interfacing.

Jazz hummed as he put the finishing touches on the energon goodies he’d made for their date night. Gelled squares with iron shavings was one of Prowl’s favourites, and Jazz hoped that this batch had come out as good as the last time he’d made them.

…the last time that Prowl had cancelled and rescheduled their date night. Again. 

This was the third time Prowl had rescheduled their date night. Prowl had been so busy the last deca-cycle or so, Jazz had hardly seen him at all. Not that it was too unusual these cycles, Jazz thought, trying not to be bitter. Prowl **had** warned him that he would be busy. 

Yesterday, Jazz had finally gone to the length of contacting Prowl’s assistant to make certain that Prowl had no other meetings or duties that would interfere with tonight. He’d also woken up early before Prowl left for work, and reminded him about tonight. 

All Prowl had to do was show up. 

Show up... And not be grumpy.

Arranging the treats on a plate, Jazz mulled over the other changes he’d noticed since Prowl had gotten so busy with work. It was almost as if Prowl had forgotten how to live with another mech. Jazz would come home from a night at the club to find a half-emptied cube of energon sitting on Prowl’s desk. Prowl, the neat freak, leaving dirty glassware lying around was just strange. On other occasions, the lights had been left on, and once the entertainment centre was still on, scrolling past the news feeds. Prowl always caught up on the news before settling in for recharge, but he had never left the entertainment centre or the lights on before.

But worse... Jazz gnawed on his lower lip, trying to derail the train of thought before it got rolling, but failed. For the past few deca-cycles, every touch had been initiated by Jazz. Every hug, every kiss, every stroke down an arm had been Jazz’s alone. Not once had Prowl approached him with anything like affection.

Jazz suppressed the hitch in his vents. He missed having Prowl come up behind him while he was working in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling into his neck. He missed Prowl planting a kiss on the top of his helm while he practiced at his keyboard. He missed Prowl snuggling up to him on the couch as they watched a movie or a show or – slag, even while watching the news. 

And he really missed interfacing with Prowl.

All of that was totally unhelpful, Jazz knew, and he stuffed the feelings down as far as he could. Prowl was busy. Prowl had warned him that he would be busy. Jazz had promised to understand. 

Jazz just needed to understand.

The door to the flat chimed as it opened, and Jazz cancelled all the disturbing thought threads in relief. “Hey Prowler!” he called down the hallway. “Welcome home!”

Prowl stopped at the end of the hallway before turning into the living room. “Hello, Jazz,” he said. He glanced at the treats. “You did not have to go to all of this trouble.”

“Oh yes, I did,” Jazz said, stepping around the island into the hallway. He kissed Prowl, and for once the mech did not pull away. He even leaned into the kiss slightly, although his lips didn’t move against Jazz’s. “This is our first date night in forever, and I wanted to make sure it was fantastic!”

Prowl allowed himself to be led to the couch, where Jazz pushed him down into the seat. “Stay!” Jazz ordered, flitting back into the kitchen for the treats and the bottle of high-grade. He settled onto the couch beside Prowl. “Help yourself,” he said as he keyed into the entertainment centre. “I’ve got that documentary about the Vorsk Offensive you’ve been wanting to watch queued up and ready to go, or we could listen to some music and talk. Your choice!”

Taking a treat from the plate, Prowl popped it into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “The documentary sounds interesting,” he said, pouring himself a glass of high-grade.

“You got it! Lights, thirty percent.” Jazz started the movie and leaned back, resting his shoulder against Prowl.

It really wasn’t Jazz’s type of show, but he didn’t care – Prowl was home, next to him, and he wasn’t working. He felt cautiously for the other mech’s field, but was not surprised to find that it was contained too closely to sense. Jazz had hardly caught anything from Prowl’s field lately. He was probably under a lot of stress, he thought.

Stress? Mirage was right. Prowl thrived on stress. Maybe this was a different kind of stress. 

Jazz tilted his helm slightly so that he could look through the side of his visor at Prowl. The Praxian’s optics had dimmed, but they flickered slightly in the dim light of the living room. Jazz frowned. Was Prowl... working? During the movie? On their date night?

Pulling his field in as tight as he could, Jazz exvented softly and focused back on the screen.

When the documentary ended, Jazz sat up and stretched, stealing another glance at Prowl. Prowl’s optics had come back up to their usual brightness, and he watched as Jazz arched his back strut. “That was entertaining,” said Prowl. “Thank you for a very nice date night.”

Frowning, Jazz leaned back towards Prowl. “Don’t tell me you’re callin’ it a night already, Prowler,” Jazz purred, tracing a digit down Prowl’s chest armor to outline the cover of the interface port at his hip. “After not seein’ ya for so long, I was really hopin’ we could spend just a bit more time together.”

Prowl went stiff at Jazz’s touch. “I am... very tired, Jazz,” he said haltingly. 

Unable to stop himself, Jazz let all of his frustration burn into his field as he twisted away from Prowl and turned off the entertainment centre. “Of course. You’re always tired. You never have time.” Lowering his helm, not looking at Prowl, Jazz’s engine whined softly. “I’m sorry, Prowl. I know ya said you’d be busy, but – I didn’t know it meant I’d never get to see my conjunx.” He held in a stuttering vent and looked back to Prowl. “I… I miss ya, Prowler. I thought maybe I’d get ya for just one night.”

Prowl stared at Jazz, his face totally still and unreadable. Finally, he vented softly and held out a hand. “I am sorry, Jazz. I did not realize how much I was neglecting you.”

Jazz took Prowl’s hand and brought it up to his lips, kissing Prowl’s digits. He kept his visor focused on Prowl, and smiled when he saw his optics brighten at the touch. “If ya can carve out another groon or so for us from your busy schedule tonight, Prowler, I’ll be sure to call everything forgiven.” He opened his mouth and sucked one of Prowl’s digits in, curling his glossa around the tip.

The Praxian sucked air through his intake at the touch, his optics burning to white and his fans kicking to a higher speed. “I... ah... Sure,” Prowl stammered. 

With a leer, Jazz swung himself up to straddle Prowl’s legs, pinning the other mech to the couch. Prowl looked up at Jazz with wide optics as if seeing Jazz for the first time. “Wow, Prowl. It hasn’t been **that** long since we’ve interfaced.” Jazz kissed Prowl again, sliding his glossa into Prowl’s mouth when he opened it in a gasp. “Or has it?” Jazz said teasingly when he pulled back again. “I can’t rightly remember the last time.”

“It... uh... **has** been a while, I think,” Prowl said, his optics still fixed on Jazz’s face.

“We’ll just have to make up for lost time,” Jazz crooned, tracing a digit against the top edge of Prowl’s door wings.

Prowl jumped at the touch, his wing jerking away from the touch and his hips bucking up into Jazz’s. He groaned loudly, and muttered under his breath, “Primus!” And for the first time in ages, Jazz sensed something from Prowl’s field: pure lust.

Laughing in delight, Jazz kissed Prowl again, nibbling down his jaw to his neck cords. “Yer runnin’ so hot tonight, lover,” he murmured. “You’ve been workin’ too hard. Let me burn off some of that excess energy for ya.” Jazz pulled his cord out and notched it into Prowl’s hip socket, sending a quick burst of data through the connection as he ran a digit of his other hand up the edge of Prowl’s sensor-laden chevron.

The Praxian shuddered under him. Charge crackled through Prowl’s frame and his optics whited out, then blinked off as his frame went slack in a soft reboot. Surprised at Prowl’s sudden overload, Jazz gently caressed seams and gaps in Prowl’s armor as he waited for Prowl’s processor to come back online. He nuzzled the crest at the base of Prowl’s chevron, letting himself enjoy the moment: Prowl in his arms again, willing and running hot.

When Prowl’s optics flickered to life again, Jazz traced his thumb over Prowl’s lips. “I guess I wasn’t too far off from you needin’ to bleed off some excess energy,” Jazz said softly. “But let’s do this proper-like this time.”

“…this time?” Prowl asked weakly, his hands clinging to Jazz’s waist. His optics focused weakly on Jazz’s visor.

Pulling at Prowl’s cord, Jazz traced a digit up each prong and smiled as the ex-tactician shivered. “You don’t think I’m gonna let you get away with a quickie like that, do ya?” He plugged Prowl’s cable into his own hip port, then sent another small burst of sensory information through the connection. “I think you promised me a whole groon.”

Jazz allowed Prowl’s processor to complete the connection to his, and lowered his firewalls. He waited a klik, but realized that Prowl had not yet lowered his. He trailed a touch against the virtual walls surrounding his lover’s processor. [[Ya gonna let me in, Prowler?]]

The only response was a sudden torrent of sensory data that lit up his processor and bled back through the connection to Prowl. The Praxian groaned loudly, sending even more data through the link. Then, Prowl closed his optics and **pulled** data through from Jazz’s processor into his own.

Jazz gripped Prowl’s shoulders, trying to steady himself from the vertigo that suddenly seized him. With Prowl’s firewalls still up, Jazz could only vaguely sense the data passing through his processor as it fed from him back to Prowl. His processor burned from the amount of data Prowl was drawing through him. Charge built in his lines, sizzling down his cables and struts, but it was all wrong. It was disorienting. It was making him dizzy. It **hurt**. 

Jazz hissed as the pull increased again, and he pawed at Prowl, trying to get the Praxian to pause the flow of data. [[Prowler, please…]] Jazz whimpered as the pain increased. His hands scraped at Prowl’s chest, his arms, his door wings, trying to find purchase.

Suddenly, Prowl’s optics flew open, burning bright white again. A wail sounded from his open mouth and his door wings trembled with the force of his overload. Then, the Praxian went limp against the back of the couch, his optics dark as his processor performed a full reboot.

Jazz grunted as the connection went dark and Prowl’s frame went slack in his grip. His processor ached. “Ugh. What the frag was that, Prowl?” Jazz muttered, holding a hand to his helm. He rolled off of Prowl’s lap, unplugging himself. “Way to kill the mood, lover.”

He watched Prowl’s optics glimmer back to life for the second time that evening. After a few moments, Prowl turned his helm.

There was a moment, there and gone so fast that Jazz thought he may have imagined it, where Prowl looked at Jazz in shock and horror. But then his optics flickered again and the expression had been replaced with one of satisfaction. Prowl smiled at Jazz, his normally close-held field oozing contentment. “That was incredible, Jazz,” he said, reaching forward and rubbing his hand down Jazz’s arm.

“For you, maybe,” Jazz huffed. He scooted away from Prowl on the couch.

Prowl sat up, tilting his helm to the side. “Did I do something wrong?” Prowl asked, frowning.

Jazz returned his frown. “Wrong?” Jazz wanted to say, _Yes, that was awful, please don’t ever do that again._ But... Jazz blew heated air from his vents, still overheated from the anticipation of interfacing and the unresolved charge that sizzled through his frame. This was the first night in ages that Prowl had made time for him. He touched his hand to his helm again. Even if the night didn’t end the way he wanted, at least he finally got time to spend with his partner. _It hurt,_ he wanted to say, but he didn’t want Prowl to feel bad about wanting him, and he didn’t want to discourage Prowl from coming back to him in the future. _I didn’t get much outta that,_ he wanted to add, but didn’t. It wasn’t always about him, and Prowl looked like he’d needed the overload more than Jazz did. 

Finally, Jazz said, “It was... all right, I guess. I just wish you’d let your firewalls down so we could have gone a bit further.”

Ducking his helm, Prowl smiled slightly. “I am sorry. I think I got caught up in the moment.” He grabbed Jazz’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

Rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, Jazz shrugged. “Yer welcome, I guess.”

Prowl stood, flicking his door wings out wide as he straightened up. “I am tired. I have to recharge.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Jazz’s helm. “Good night, Jazz.”

“…night, Prowler,” Jazz muttered, watching Prowl spin on his pede and walk down the hallway to his room. He heard the door shush shut. 

Leaning back on the couch, Jazz looked at the almost untouched plate of treats and Prowl’s half-full glass of high-grade that he had left on the table. “Thanks for the date night, Prowl,” he muttered gloomily.

* * *

Tires squealing through the turn, Jazz poured more power to his wheels. He blew past the other mechs on the track, weaving in and out between them. 

Into another turn, Jazz focused his anger and sadness into pulling every bit of power he could from his engine. Prowl didn’t like his music anymore. Prowl left trash around the flat and didn’t lift a digit to help clean up. Prowl did... whatever that was last night, leaving Jazz’s processer aching even the next morning. Maybe Prowl just didn’t give a flying frag anymore about him. Was that it?

Suddenly, a blue and red vehicle zipped past Jazz and then cut in directly in front of him, slamming on his brakes. Jazz braked sharply to avoid the mech in front of him. ::What the slag do ya think you’re -:: he began on an open comm channel.

::Stop immediately, Jazz.:: Smokescreen kept in front of him until Jazz stopped, then transformed into root mode. He walked back towards Jazz. “You can’t drive like that during an open circuit slot,” he said firmly as Jazz also transformed. “If you want to haul aft at dangerous speeds like that, you need to book a private racing slot.”

“Who’s bein’ dangerous?” snapped Jazz. “I was perfectly in control the whole time.”

“Tell that to the youngling you just about drove into the wall,” barked Smokescreen, pointing across the track. “He’s lucky he didn’t end up losing control when you zipped by him with just nanometers to spare.”

Jazz looked over at the youngling, and his spark sank. The small yellow racer drove slowly to one of the track exits and transformed. He threw a frightened look over his shoulder at Jazz as he started to walk away.

“Aww, slag, Smokey. I’m... Give me a klik.” Jazz transformed again and drove across the infield to catch up with the youngling. When he neared him, he transformed and trotted up alongside the yellow mech. “Hey, mech, I’m real sorry about that,” he said. “I...”

Jazz realized he was about to say _I got caught up in the moment,_ and his tanks clenched at the memory of Prowl saying the same thing to him the previous night. He reset his vocalizer. “I got no excuse for drivin’ how I did, and I’m sorry if I scared ya.” He held out a hand. “Are ya all right?”

The young mech looked at Jazz’s hand. He didn’t take it, but he nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m all right. And it’s ok... I shouldn’t have been in that lane anyway.”

“Naw, you were fine, mech. I shouldn’t have been goin’ that fast.” Jazz turned to Smokescreen, who had walked up beside them. “Hey, Smokey, put a few more slots for this mech on my bill.” He smiled at the yellow racer. “I wanna make it up to him for ruinin’ his slot today.”

The yellow mech smiled at Jazz, his face becoming more open. “Thanks... ah...”

“Designation’s Jazz, but it really oughta be Afthead.” 

Laughing, the other mech said, “I’m Goldstorm. And thanks.” He glanced at Smokescreen, who still stood beside him with his arms crossed across his bumper and his door wings flared wide. “I, uh, gotta go. My time was just about up, anyway. Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Sure thing,” said Jazz. He smiled until the youngling left the racing area, and then groaned. He shook his helm as he turned to Smokescreen. “Yeah, just call me Afthead. That’ll work,” he said, collapsing onto a bench by the track entrance.

Smokescreen sat next to the Polyhexian. After a long pause, he said, “So what’s gotten into you, Jazz?”

Jazz rested his elbows on his knees and covered his faceplates with his hands. He offlined his optics behind his visor. “Prowl,” he said simply. Smokescreen was silent, waiting for Jazz to continue. Finally, Jazz lifted his helm and looked at Smokescreen. “I ain’t hardly seen him. And when I do...” he glanced away from his friend again. “He’s different. He’s not my Prowler.”

Putting a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, Smokescreen said, “If you want to talk, I’m willing to listen.”

“Thanks Smokey, but...” Jazz shrugged. “He’s just busy, and I think he’s a little overwhelmed with work. I’ve never seen him bring so much work home with him, even with all the time he’s been spendin’ at the office. Maybe... Maybe it’s just gettin’ to him.”

Smokescreen thought for a moment, then said, “Have you talked to him about it?”

“Naw. What can I say?” Throwing his hands in the air, Jazz looked up at the sky. “He warned me about this. He said he’d be extra busy, and I said I’d understand. He said he’d make it up to me later, after it all calms down.” Jazz’s shoulders slumped. “I just didn’t know it would be this bad. I didn’t know that he’d...” His vocalizer crackled, remembering the previous night’s disappointing and painful end. He didn’t want to mention the interfacing to Smokescreen, knowing that it would probably make the situation sound worse than it actually was. After all, Prowl had been tired; he probably just didn’t realize what he’d done. 

“Listen, Jazz. You’ve got friends, all over. We’re just worried about you. Mirage is worried, and so’s Blaster. Even Orion asked the other day if you were all right.” He threw an arm around the Polyhexian’s shoulders. “If you need anything, any time... Just let us know. We’ll be there for you, all right?”

“A’ight.” Jazz nodded. Smokescreen’s field was rich with concern and support, and Jazz basked in it. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since anyone – including Prowl – had openly shown him any type of true affection. “Thanks, Smokey.”

* * *

Prowl tried.

He had done what he could. The backups of forged numbers, records of the real numbers, and the minutes of meetings with Hardhelm and his frame’s driver were all stored and recorded. Prowl gave a nudge here and a quiet suggestion there, capitalizing on the other mech’s messy habits to leave the incriminating datapad where Jazz might find it.

That is, **if** Jazz would find it, carelessly tossed into the pile of datapads on his keyboard. Prowl knew that Jazz was notoriously disorganized, but it was the only thing he could think to do that would not cause his captor undue suspicion.

The minor actions he was able to take had to be enough. He just prayed to Primus that Jazz would find the clues and piece them together before it was too late.

And then... And then it **was** too late.

Prowl grieved.

Of course, Prowl was aghast that he would be implicated in this fraud by association, should any of these crimes ever come to light. His reputation, carefully repaired through hard work and diligence over hundreds of vorn, would be shattered into shameful pieces once again. 

He was horrified, too, that after the contract was signed, they intended to dispose of his frame as collateral damage on the way to their prize. After all he’d been through... Praxus, the war, Earth, the post-war tribulations... After all that, to be disposed of so quietly, to be taken out like a piece of rubbish… It seemed so anticlimactic and mundane. 

But what really made his spark cry out in sorrow was what his frame was being made to do to Jazz.

As his captor lounged on the couch with Jazz curled against him, Prowl could sense the other’s irritation. He was surprised; it was the first time that he had felt anything other than selfishness, determination, or a callous desire for wealth from whoever was occupying his processor. But the exasperation that he felt from his captor as Jazz picked up his hand and kissed it –

And then Prowl was pushed down into the darkness, harder than he had ever been before, as the puppetmaster surged into all corners of his processor, riding a wave of lust. Before he went plummeting into oblivion, Prowl only received a vague impression that his hyper-tuned sensor arrays amplified the sensations received, so that his driver was caught unaware by the intensity of the charge that Jazz’s simple touches had created.

Prowl only clawed his way up for a moment immediately after his overload, catching a glimpse of Jazz’s dismayed expression, before he was sent crashing back down into the inky depths.

Later, Prowl’s captor replayed the incident in his memory, and Prowl saw what this mech had done. 

Prowl raged.

 _No!_ He snarled, battering his own consciousness against the walls of his virtual prison. _Do what you want with me. But leave Jazz alone!_

Prowl was not even be sure that his mental cries could be heard at all.

What he could sense, though, was a growing lust within the other mech. Where before there had been a singularly-focused goal, there was now a distraction: Jazz. His captor liked to hurt mechs. He liked stripping their processors raw during interface. Prowl knew that some mechs liked to be on the receiving end of that, but Jazz obviously did not. And worse, that kink combined with Jazz’s sound-tuned processor and the extra sensory receivers in Prowl’s frame, made the activity irresistible. 

Now, his puppetmaster could think of nothing but doing it to Jazz again, harder and fiercer. And Prowl could see that he was not going to be denied.

 _Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare hurt him again! I will kill you!_

Prowl’s soundless screams echoed off nothing, going unheard and unheeded.


	4. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains non-con plug-n-play interfacing after withdrawal of consent.

Jazz hadn’t seen Prowl in almost a deca-cycle, aside from brief moments here and there. Jazz would be coming home from the club as Prowl was going to recharge, or Jazz would be waking as Prowl left for work.

It was lonely, Jazz finally admitted to himself. Aside from the occasional mess that Jazz cleaned up and the glimpses he got of his conjunx, he might as well have been living in the flat alone. As disappointing as their last date night had been, Jazz started thinking towards their next one. He would just have to be a bit more vocal about what he wanted out of the evening before they started interfacing, he decided.

Jazz found himself leaving for his gigs earlier than necessary, and staying late at the club to help clean up the stage. On a whim, he took a whole cycle to rewire the club’s sound system so that Blaster could access the controls remotely, and he helped add a new bank of lights to the dance floor. 

“This is great, Jazz! But… You didn’t have to do this,” Blaster said after the work was completed. Jazz and Blaster stood in the middle of the dance floor, playing with the various effects that the new lights could create. 

“I know,” Jazz said, watching one of the new light spinners spray coloured beams across the floor and walls. “But I don’t mind. It gave me somethin’ to do while Prowl’s workin’.”

Blaster switched off the dance lights and turned to Jazz. “Is everything all right? Mirage said that –“ 

“Yes! Everything is fine!” Jazz said loudly, exasperated. One of the bartenders glanced up, surprised, and Jazz lowered his volume. “Everyone keeps askin’ me that. I’m fine. Prowl is fine. Everything is **fine**."

“We’re asking because you don’t sound fine.” Jazz spun around to find Mirage standing behind him. The mech could be freakishly quiet when he wanted to be. “We’re just asking because we’re worried about you.” 

****

Jazz plastered a smile across his faceplates. “No worries here, Raj. Like I’ve been tellin’ everyone, it’s all good.”

Mirage held Jazz’s gaze for a klik longer than Jazz was comfortable with. “You **will** tell someone if you need something, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jazz, waving a hand. “Now, let’s get these new lights synched with that fancy sound system.

After his performance that evening, Jazz keyed open the door to the flat. The lights were still on full brightness, but Prowl’s door was closed. Jazz huffed when he saw the dirty cube on Prowl’s desk. “Lights, fifty percent,” he said, picking up the cube and taking it into the kitchen to be cleaned.

He sprawled on the couch and tapped into the entertainment centre. He flicked through the feeds before finally turning on some quiet music and offlining his optics. 

Sure, he’d let his friends know if he needed something. But what he really needed right now was for Prowl to stop acting so slagging weird. He wanted things to go back to how they were. He wanted Prowl to pay attention to him again. He wanted – 

“Jazz?”

Bolting upright on the couch, Jazz stared behind him. Prowl stood at the corner of the couch, looking down at Jazz with bright optics. “Aww, slag, Prowl. Did I wake you up? I didn’t think I had the music that loud.”

Still staring at Jazz, Prowl stalked around the couch until he stood in front of the musician. “No. I could not recharge and I heard you come in.” 

“Did ya want me to get you something from the kitchen?” Jazz asked, searching Prowl’s face. The Praxian wore a strange expression that Jazz was having trouble identifying.

“No...” Prowl bent low, running his digits from Jazz’s chin up to a sensor horn. Jazz shivered at the touch. “No, Jazz. I want you.”

Jazz’s spark thrummed in his chest as Prowl grabbed the back of his helm and pulled him in for a long kiss. It felt different, but he was too happy to dissect what exactly was different from the kisses he’d received from Prowl for hundreds of vorn. Jazz kissed Prowl back, opening his mouth and gliding his glossa along Prowl’s lips. When he managed to pull back again, he smiled up at Prowl. “That’s funny, Prowl… I’ve been thinkin’ the same thing about you.”

With a sudden growl, Prowl pushed Jazz down onto the couch and climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. He kissed down Jazz’s throat, picking and pulling at Jazz’s armor. His field burned with lust and possessiveness. 

Jazz vented hard, his fans running fast. It had been a very long time since Prowl had taken the initiative like this. “Frag, Prowler,” Jazz moaned as Prowl dragged his digits up to his sensor horns again, lighting up his sensory net with charge. Then he bucked as he felt Prowl shove his cord into his socket, slamming him with a huge packet of data. “Prowl!” he gasped, clinging to his lover’s shoulders.

It took him a moment to recover, and in that time Prowl had unspooled Jazz’s cable and plugged it into his own port. Their processors completed the connection as Prowl nipped at Jazz’s collar fairing. Prowl murmured, “Last time was amazing. I want that again.”

Jazz stiffened, then gently pushed on Prowl’s shoulders to get the Praxian to sit up so that he could look him in the optics. “Yeah, I’ve been meanin’ to talk to ya about that. That last time... It wasn’t... great. In fact, it was kinda awful for me.”

Prowl purred at him over the hardline connection. [[How can something that feels so good for one feel awful for the other?]] Jazz stared as Prowl’s optics brightened again, flickering. [[I felt your charge. I felt you respond. It was magnificent.]] 

Jazz howled as Prowl sent a burst of data through the connection, and he felt his firewalls crumble at Prowl’s assault. He realized that Prowl was using his superior processing power to keep Jazz’s firewalls down and his own up.

[[Prowl, no!]] Jazz tried to raise his firewalls again and pushed against Prowl’s chest. [[Not like this!]] He focused, struggling to bring his protections back to surround his processor and keep Prowl away from him.

When Jazz’s hands scrabbled to his hip to disconnect the cables, Prowl grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head against the couch. [[It is amazing, isn’t it? The sheer quantity of sensation. The power of it. Feel it with me, Jazz]] As if he was flicking a stack of glass cubes, Prowl shattered the wall that Jazz had been trying to raise around his core. Then he poured even more of the sensation through their connection. [[You **must** feel it.]] 

The Praxian maxed out the throughput of their connection, pushing unfiltered sensory information through the link and lighting up every one of Jazz’s connectors until it felt like every circuit in his frame was about to short out. Then, Prowl **pulled** all of that data back through the same connection.

Jazz screamed in pain. “Prowl!” Half-remembered shards of memories flew past him, moments from his damaged memory circuits that had been tagged as incomplete by the mnemosurgeon hundreds of vorn ago. Interrogation. Torture. Violation. Jazz knew that he used to have defences, tools and traps stored in his processor to prevent this from happening, but they’d all been removed now that Jazz was a civilian. No one, least of all Jazz, thought those countermeasures would be needed anymore.

Especially not to defend himself from his own conjunx endura.

Jazz thrashed, trying to throw Prowl off of him, but the heavier Praxian kept him pinned to the couch. It burned. His processor felt like it was on fire as Prowl streamed more and more data through the connection in the wrong direction. “No, Prowl! Please!” he begged. “Please, stop! **You’re hurting me!** ”

At Jazz’s words, Prowl’s optics burned to white, and charge crackled across his chest and down into Jazz. A sob rose from his vocalizer before fading into static, and he collapsed onto Jazz in a reboot.

Jazz groaned, charge still buzzing through his frame and through his processor. Everything hurt. He could barely online his optics, let alone push Prowl off of him. He struggled weakly for a few kliks until Prowl came back online and blinked down at him woozily. 

“Get offa me,” Jazz said, pushing at Prowl again. Prowl sat up, and Jazz yanked their cords free. 

“Thank you, Jazz,” said Prowl, rubbing his hand down Jazz’s arm. 

Jazz jerked back, launching himself from the couch. “I told you to stop, Prowl,” he snarled. 

The leer on Prowl’s lips sent a shudder down Jazz’s backs strut. “I felt the charge in your frame and your processor,” he said. “It was intoxicating. I know you felt it, too.”

Jazz stared at his conjunx. Prowl was smiling up at him placidly, emitting nothing but contentment in his field. Jazz’s spark ached, the pain mixing with the burning agony of his processor. He pressed his lips together, and then stalked down the hallway to his room and shut the door.

For the first time in two hundred vorn of living with Prowl, Jazz locked his room door.

* * *

It took a long time, but Jazz finally fell into a fitful recharge. His dreams were plagued by images of Prowl looming over him, smiling with a glint in his optics. “I know you liked it, Jazz,” he crooned, reaching out to touch –

Jazz woke with a start to hear the flat door close. He checked his chronometer and exvented. Prowl had just left for work.

He rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, then groaned when his processor ached at the sudden movement. 

This had to be a nightmare. Jazz could not reconcile the Prowl in his memory – caring, loving, considerate, orderly, fastidious Prowl – with the brusque, cold, rude, disorganized, messy Prowl that he had become. 

Jazz disconnected his visor and set it aside to rub his optics, hoping it would distract him from the throbbing in his processor. 

Did he do something to cause Prowl’s behaviour? Had he encouraged him last night, somehow implying that he liked having his processor scraped and scoured by the flood of data Prowl had pulled through it? 

No. Jazz onlined his optics and reconnected his visor, hissing at the new pain the motion caused in his head. No, Jazz had not encouraged him. He had said no.

Jazz had told him to stop.

Prowl just... hadn’t listened.

Jazz sat up carefully and slowly walked to his room door. He opened it quietly, listening for several kliks before moving into the hallway. He wanted to make sure Prowl was gone.

Sure enough, the flat was deserted. A half-empty cube of energon sat on Prowl’s desk, and a spatter of the fluid was drying on the counter next to the dispenser. Jazz started to sit down on the couch, but froze when he had a flash of memory from the previous evening: Prowl standing over him as he sat on the couch, pinning him down, and –

With a shudder, Jazz crossed the room and sat down on the bench by his keyboard. He stared at the couch.

Jazz could just go to work now, to get his mind off of what had happened. There was a very slight hum in one of the new speakers that Jazz could see if he could isolate. Sure, only music-tuned audials and processors could probably pick it up, but Jazz found it a little annoying. Blaster probably did, too. Diagnosing and fixing that would probably take most of the cycle before the club opened tonight, and Jazz was scheduled to play. That way, Jazz wouldn’t be home when Prowl returned from work.

But then... Later this evening, Jazz would have to come home. Prowl would probably be waiting.

Jazz remembered the desire and greed that he’d felt in Prowl’s field when he’d stripped Jazz’s bandwidth raw. With a lurch in his tanks, Jazz realized that Prowl was going to want that again... And again.

“Slag,” Jazz muttered.

He needed to do something. He wasn’t licensed for weapons anymore – why would he need them? And anyway, Jazz didn’t know if he could actually bring himself to harm Prowl, no matter what he had done to him. He still loved the mech, even if...

No. He had to do something else to protect himself. He just needed time to figure things out. He just needed to time to think. 

Time away from Prowl.

Jazz took a long shuddering intake of air, then opened a comm channel to Smokescreen.

::Smokey, hey. Sorry to call so early.::

::That’s all right, Jazz. What’s up?::

::So, you said to let you know if I needed anything... I... I think I need some help.::

Jazz’s spark broke as he told Smokescreen what he needed, but he was able to hold himself together until he closed the comm line. 

Then, he sat on the edge of the bench and sobbed.

* * *

Three groons later, Jazz was following Smokescreen down a road leading out of the city. He had hurriedly swept all of his data pads off of his keyboard and into his electro-bass’ carrying case, and cancelled his appearance at a party the following night. He gave the party organizer the contact information for a few of the other musicians who played regularly at Visages, knowing that any of them would welcome the chance to get their name out there. Meanwhile, Smokescreen had contacted Blaster for him, and let the host know that Jazz wouldn’t be in for a while.

Finally, Jazz had left a note for Prowl on the counter in the kitchen. _Hey Prowler, I got a surprise invitation to a gig out in Kaon. I’ll be gone for at least a deca-cycle, maybe longer. See you when I get back. Love, Jazz._

Jazz had warred with himself, trying to stay firm. He felt awful lying to Prowl, but he didn’t want the chance of accidentally running into him until he figured out what to do. He didn’t want Prowl to know where he was really going. 

He avoided directly thinking about the real reason he was leaving: that he was doing this to protect himself from Prowl. Thinking about that made his tanks heave.

Smokescreen could have just given Jazz directions or coordinates for their destination, but Jazz was glad that Smokescreen had insisted on going with him. Even though they drove in silence, Jazz appreciated the company. He appreciated it even more the farther they got from home. With a friend along, it felt less like running away, and more like just going out for a drive. 

The steep terrain surrounding Iacon City slowly flattened into plains, and then into the rolling prairie. Soon, Smokescreen turned off the main road onto a winding trail leading down into a valley filled with tingrass. As they came around a stand of tall crystals, Jazz saw a house with a large porch. An outbuilding sat a small distance from the house, and a large fenced area was set adjacent to the outbuilding, sprawling up the side of a nearby hill. Two zap-ponies in the enclosure watched them idly as they drove in.

Both mechs transformed as they approached the house, and the door opened. A grey and red mech walked out onto the porch and waved, tipping his door wings forward in greeting. “Hi Jazz! Hi Smokescreen!”

“Hi, Bluestreak,” said Smokescreen. He turned to Jazz. “I gotta get back to town in time for tonight’s races. Is there anything else you need?”

Jazz shifted the strap of his instrument case on his shoulder and shook his head. “No, I’m fine for now.” He held out his hand. “But thank you so much for...” 

He trailed off as Smokescreen ignored his hand and pulled him in for a hug instead. “You would have done the same thing for me,” Smokescreen said. He let Jazz go to hold him at arm’s length, and gave him an encouraging smile. “Blue and Hound will take good care of you.”

His vents hitching slightly, Jazz nodded. He jumped when he felt a touch on his arm, and he looked to see Bluestreak gesturing for him to follow him into the house. “Come on in, Jazz, and we’ll get you settled. Did you need me to carry anything?” 

Jazz glanced back to see Smokescreen transform and drive back up the road. He looked at Bluestreak and shook his helm. “Naw, this is all I’ve got,” he said, lifting the strap of his instrument case. He didn’t expect those words to cause a lump to rise in his intake, and he gritted his dentae to keep the choked sob from escaping. He tried to push the ache he felt in his spark down so that he wouldn’t broadcast his sorrow in his field, but he was sure that he was failing miserably.

Bluestreak ushered him into the living area in uncharacteristic silence, and gently eased him onto the couch. While Jazz set his case down, Bluestreak flitted out to the kitchen and quickly returned with a cube of energon. He settled down on the couch next to Jazz and pressed the cube into his hand. “I know it was a long drive from the city and you’re probably exhausted, so here’s some fuel for you. If you’d prefer it warmed up, just let me know and I can heat it up quickly. I want you to feel totally comfortable here… Well, as comfortable as you can, of course, so please tell me if there’s anything that Hound or I can do for you while you’re staying with us, and... Oh... Oh, Jazz...”

Jazz had leaned forward while Bluestreak spoke, and when he felt the Praxian’s arm go around his shoulders he began to cry. 

He did not bother checking his chronometer to see how long he cried for, but when he stopped, he felt drained. Messy, shuddering sobs gradually gave way to soft whimpers, and through it all Bluestreak gently stroked his back, humming comfortingly. 

After he finally quieted, Jazz realized he was curled up on the couch, nestled into Bluestreak’s side. He jerked upright and barked out an awkward laugh. “Sorry, Blue,” he said.

Bluestreak smiled and flicked his door wings slightly. “It’s ok, Jazz, I don’t mind. It really seemed like you needed that,” he said. Then he pointed at the cube that Jazz had left on the table in front of him. Firmly, he said, “Now, drink that.”

“Yes, sir,” Jazz said, and took a drink from the cube. He glanced around and realized they were still alone. “So, where’s Hound?”

Relaxing slightly, Bluestreak leaned back onto the couch and watched Jazz work on his energon. “Hound is out in the field with a group of clients. He should be back in two cycles, or maybe tomorrow. It’s low season right now, since most of the herds have moved away to the other side of the plains, so after he gets back we’re free for several deca-cycles.” 

It was nice, distracting himself chatting with Bluestreak about how his and Hound’s guiding business was doing. With a sudden pang, Jazz recalled the trip that he and Prowl had taken with Bluestreak and Hound, not too long after their union ceremony. When Bluestreak had been severely injured, Jazz had to comfort and help the Praxian as they made their way out of the caves. Now, it seemed that Bluestreak was doing the same for him.

He looked up at the silver mech, who sensed his sudden change in mood. Bluestreak smiled and took the empty cube from Jazz’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Marge and Homer.”

“Who?”

Marge and Homer turned out to be the names of the two zap-ponies that Jazz had seen when he arrived. Bluestreak walked up to the fence and let out a sharp whistle.

The zap-ponies, which had been browsing on short crystals growing halfway up the hill, lifted their heads at the sound. Then they both transformed into their two-wheeled alt modes. They roared up to the fence and transformed back into their beast modes, extending their grey heads over the fence to nuzzle Bluestreak’s chest armor.

“Here,” Bluestreak said, handing Jazz a small handful of green crystals. “They really like these. Make sure Homer doesn’t eat them all,” he added, indicating the larger pony.

Jazz held a crystal out to Homer, who vacuumed it out of his hand and began crunching on it. Marge pushed his way past Homer, and took another crystal from Jazz’s hand in a much more delicate fashion. Jazz laughed delightedly when he felt Homer nuzzle his arm, looking for another treat. “I didn’t know you had pets,” he said.

“Well, it was sort of Hound’s idea,” Blue said, gently petting Marge’s nose. “There’s a rancher a few valleys over that Hound is friends with. He keeps zap-ponies for mechs who want to rent them for stuff – going for excursions sort of like what me and Hound do, but also for festivals and parties and stuff for mechs in the city. I guess some mechs like having so-called wild animals at their parties to help set the mood.”

Jazz thought of a few of the more extravagant parties he’d played at. “Yeah, I think I know the type,” he said, giving another crystal to Homer.

“Anyway, this rancher had two ponies that kept acting up. They wouldn’t take riders, and they would always go crazy whenever you got them someplace in town: kicking and beeping and raising a fuss. Totally wrong for a fancy dress party, you know? So he was going to sell them to one of the energon processing plants in town, since they weren’t earning their keep, and they were too domesticated to just let go. Couldn’t keep ‘em, couldn’t let ‘em go, right?” 

Jazz frowned at the ponies. “They seem to be acting fine now,” he said. He gave Homer’s nose a pat, and the pony nuzzled his chest, looking for more crystals.

“Yeah, well, there’s only two of us, and there’s no weird noises or anything... I think that city noises are what really make them go crazy. So the rancher tells Hound about this when he sees them, and Hound just couldn’t take it when he heard they were going to be melted down. He came racing back here to tell me about them, and practically begged me to let him bring them here.” He laughed. The two ponies had figured out that the mechs didn’t have any more crystals for them, and were slowly making their way back to where they had been grazing. “So of course I said yes. What else could I say?”

Jazz smiled as he watched Homer nip Marge’s flank, and Marge took a kick at Homer and trotted a short distance away. “Where’d ya get the names?”

Bluestreak glanced at Jazz. “You don’t remember? Ah,” he said when Jazz shook his head. “They’re from a show on the humans’ entertainment network, on Earth. Everyone watched it. Homer and Marge were a couple of conjunx endura on the show. We named him Homer because he’s big and kind of dumb,” he said, pointing at the large zap-pony. “And we named him Marge because he’s smaller, but he’s a lot smarter and puts up with Homer’s stupid antics.” Sure enough, Marge had walked back towards Homer, and they nuzzled each other before beginning to graze again.

They watched the two ponies graze for a while before Bluestreak looked up at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “Let’s get inside and get you settled. I think Hound has a data slug of that show with Homer and Marge that he’s saved all these vorns that we can watch, if you’re interested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: I wrote an extra scene that occurs after this chapter. You can read it as [Chapter 1 of Pulling Strings: Extras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15170534/chapters/35180603).


	5. Discovery

The cycles settled into a quiet routine without Jazz even realizing it was happening. As promised, Hound returned two cycles after Jazz arrived, and greeted Jazz without surprise or question. Jazz assumed that Bluestreak had commed Hound to let him know that Jazz was staying with them for a while, and he was glad not to have to deal with listening to (or giving) an explanation. 

For the first few cycles, Jazz recharged frequently. He didn’t know why he was so exhausted, only that when he was awake he just wanted to go back into recharge. Recharging felt easier than dealing with reality. But after three cycles or so, Jazz couldn’t recharge any longer than usual. At first he tried playing his electro-bass, but his spark wasn’t in it. He shuffled through the data pads he’d brought with him, looking for some music that he could work on.

“What’s this?” he asked grumpily one morning, frowning at the data pad in his hands.

“Don’t know!” said Hound cheerfully, coming into the living area with a cube of energon for himself and for Jazz. “What is it?”

Jazz growled. “Prowl. He leaves his stuff everywhere! This is his data pad. It’s full his spreadsheets and slag.” Jazz held the pad up, showing off the unfamiliar files on it. “I should delete all this fraggin’ stuff. It’ll serve him right for getting’ his stuff mixed up in mine. Don’t even know what he was doing puttin’ his stuff on my keyboard. He knows that’s where I put all my work.”

Hound shrugged. “Well, if he needed it, he’s probably noticed it’s missing now,” Hound said reasonably. “If you want, you could wipe it if you need a blank pad.”

“Naw, I’ve got plenty,” Jazz groused. He tossed the pad carelessly into his instrument case and went back to picking at his instrument.

Eventually, when he was unable to recharge all day and was not in the mood to play his bass, boredom got the best of Jazz. He began helping Hound and Bluestreak out around their house, jumping in wherever he thought he could help.

The zap-ponies needed to be fed, of course, but there were other seemingly endless things to do in and around the property. Jazz helped Hound fix a hole in the roof of the outbuilding (which turned out to house a few trailers and other equipment that they used when taking clients out into the field). He helped Bluestreak inventory his ammunition and nets that were stored in the basement. He helped clean around the living quarters, and whipped up a few of his specialties in the kitchen. Bluestreak especially seemed to appreciate this, since Hound was the better cook. Bluestreak wanted to have something to surprise his partner with, so Jazz held impromptu cooking lessons with Bluestreak while Hound was busy outside.

It was during one of those cooking sessions that Jazz came unexpectedly undone. Looking back, he thought it was because Bluestreak had accidentally brushed his back, and when Jazz glanced behind him he saw the Praxian’s door wings. His spark had leapt – Prowl! Prowl was here! ...but of course it wasn’t Prowl, and Jazz’s fragile façade crumbled away.

Jazz clung to Bluestreak in the kitchen and bawled. The first time he had cried in Bluestreak’s arms, it was because of what he was afraid he had lost. This time, he cried from fear at what the future might hold.

A future without Prowl.

Bluestreak led him to the living area and settled him on the couch again, rubbing his back like he had done before. His field wrapped Jazz in a blanket of comfort and solace. “I don’t know what’s happened between you and Prowl,” Bluestreak said. “But I know you’re hurting. I’m so sorry for whatever you’re feeling.” He hummed as Jazz wailed again, and waited patiently for the Polyhexian’s sobs to quiet back down. “If you want to tell me, it’s fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too. I’ll be here for you either way.”

Jazz snuffled into Bluestreak’s shoulder. He had been trying to figure out what had gone wrong for so long, his thought process was beginning to loop in circles. Maybe another perspective might help. 

So that night, over cubes of warm energon while sitting on the outside porch, Jazz told Bluestreak the whole story. How Prowl had been busy with work. How he changed and became distant. How he became untidy, leaving messes all over the flat for Jazz to clean up. How he had started snapping at Jazz. How he seemed to dislike spending time with Jazz. The first painful interface, and how Prowl did not seem to care that Jazz hadn’t enjoyed it. And the second time, when Prowl ignored Jazz’s pleas to stop, and seemed set on hurting Jazz. How he seemed to enjoy causing the pain.

How Prowl no longer seemed to love Jazz.

After finishing his story, Jazz felt like a hollowed-out shell. He stared blankly into the darkness surrounding the house. The zap-ponies’ optics glowed in the distance as they settled in for the night in their field.

Bluestreak leaned over and put his hand on Jazz’s arm. “I am so sorry, Jazz.” He shook his head. “I believe you. I wish there was something I could say that would make this better. I wish I had some advice for you, but... I don’t.” He vented air quietly in the darkness, his blue optics shining as he looked at Jazz. “Prowl... He’s always been sort of a loose cannon, playing by his own rules when he saw fit. He had that really rough patch after the war ended, that time that he got put on trial for treason. No one liked him then,” he said with an emphatic tone. 

“I never saw that side of him,” Jazz said dully. 

“He always seemed different with you,” Bluestreak said. “Even back before your accident, before you guys were even dating, you really were a moderating effect on him. And after you were found, when you were back...” Bluestreak paused. “He loved you, Jazz. You were **everything** to him. I wish I knew what happened. I wish I knew what to say.” He shook his helm and added, “This probably isn’t helping you at all. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jazz said, rubbing his temple. Even just remembering the pain when Prowl had forcefully downloaded data from him caused twinges in his processor. “I’m just as confused as you are. It was so... sudden. Like someone had flicked a switch.” He frowned. “One cycle he was himself, and the next he... wasn’t. Like someone else was driving his frame.” He tapped a digit on his cube. “At first I thought it was his job. Then I thought maybe I’d done something wrong to make him act like that.”

“No, Jazz. **No.** There’s nothing that you could have done that would make him... do **that**.” Bluestreak fell quiet for a long klik. Then Jazz felt a small gust of air as the Praxian lifted his door wings quickly. “Has he ever told you anything about what was done to him? After the war?”

Jazz shrugged. “Some. Not a lot. It makes him uncomfortable to talk about, so I’ve never pressed. He said he got shadowplayed. He said he got brainwashed.”

“That’s not all,” Bluestreak said. “He got mind controlled. There’s a mech – he’s dead now, named Bombshell – who got into Prowl’s mind somehow and made him do things. Awful things, and everyone thought it was just Prowl, since he had a reputation for being an aft. It just didn’t seem too far out of character.” Bluestreak’s optics swivelled towards Jazz. “That sort of tech isn’t legal anymore. But...”

“But what if it’s happened again?” Jazz felt his spark flutter in his chest as the possibility. Mind control? If Prowl was being controlled by someone else, that meant that all that slag he’d been doing hadn’t been him. It had been someone else! Then again... It seemed so crazy to even think about. “How could we find out if he is being controlled? And...” He frowned. “Why would someone do that to him? Just to frag me off?” he asked.

“Well, we don’t even know for sure that’s what happened,” Bluestreak said quickly, his field reaching out to soothe Jazz’s agitation. He waited another moment before standing up. “Come on, Hound’s waiting inside for us. He’s worried about you. You don’t have to tell him everything you told me,” Bluestreak hurried to add. “He just wants to know if there’s anything he can do to help.”

“Well, if he wants to make up some of those fluff squares he made the other night, I would not say no to them,” Jazz said, trying to put a cheerful lilt to his tone, but his thoughts were consumed by the possibility that **his** Prowl was not the one who had hurt him.

* * *

The next morning, Jazz gave Hound an abbreviated version of his and Bluestreak’s conversation from the night before. Bluestreak listened while leaning on the counter in the kitchen. “So, what if...”

“What if someone’s gotten into his head again?” Hound finished for Bluestreak. He frowned. “But how do we find out? Is that something a medic could figure out?”

“Maybe?” Bluestreak said doubtfully. “But then we’d have to get Prowl to somehow submit to a scan or something, and if he really is being mind controlled, then whoever’s controlling him wouldn’t let that happen.”

Jazz threw his hands into the air suddenly. “This is insane,” he huffed. “I can’t believe we’re havin’ a conversation about whether Prowl’s bein’ mind controlled.”

“It would only be insane if it had never happened before,” Bluestreak pointed out.

“Ok, fine, I want to amend my previous statement,” said Jazz. “I can’t believe we’re havin’ a conversation about whether Prowl’s bein’ mind controlled **again**!”

“Jazz,” said Hound, who had been lost in thought while the other two mechs talked. “Didn’t you say that one of Prowl’s data pads was in your stuff?”

“Yeah,” said Jazz. “But I looked at it already. There’s nothin’ on it. Just some reports and budgets and boring slag like that.”

“Can I see it?” Hound asked. Jazz fetched the data pad from his bag and handed it to Hound, who scrolled through it. “Did you listen to this recording?” he asked after a few moments.

“What recording?” Jazz jumped up and looked over Hound’s shoulder. “I just saw all the spreadsheets and powered the pad down again.”

“This one, called Minutes.” Hound pointed.

“Probably just somethin’ from one of his boring meetings,” Jazz groused, but quieted as Hound opened the file to play it.

A silky voice that Jazz didn’t recognise said, “How much longer until the reports are prepared?”

Another voice that was unmistakably Prowl’s said, “Not much longer. Perhaps five, maybe six deca-cycles.”

“What’s taking so long?” asked the first voice, anger creeping into it.

“It’s an insane amount of work,” Prowl said. Jazz froze as he listened. It was Prowl’s voice, but it sounded... wrong. It was less precise than Prowl’s usually clipped diction. “I don’t know how he keeps up with it. He must live in the office.”

“He has a built-in tactical system. Why don’t you use the extra processing power to help you figure it out?” the first voice growled.

“Because I can only use it for a short time before I get a killer helm-ache, and then I can’t work at all. The chip doesn’t have enough power to let me run it.”

“What chip?” Bluestreak hissed quietly, as though the mechs on the recording could hear him. Hound shushed him.

Prowl was still speaking. “I still need to finish collating the information from you and the other candidates, and then start on the analysis report. Once that’s done, it should be good enough to submit to the Council.” He paused, and then added, “As you mentioned earlier, we need to make sure it’s convincing, otherwise all of this will have been for nothing. That is why I am being so careful.”

“Fine. Keep me advised. The sooner we can dispose of him, the better.”

“Of course. But tonight I have...” Prowl groaned in annoyance. “A ‘date night’ with his conjunx. Such a waste of time, but I can’t put him off any longer.” 

The silken voice shifted slightly to take on an amused tone. “You knew you were probably going to have to interface with him eventually.” 

Jazz’s tanks lurched.

Prowl’s voice turned haughtily. “I am aware of my obligations. It doesn’t mean I am looking forward to it.” He paused, then said, “He’s really not my type.”

“Who cares if he’s your type or not? I think he’s a bit of a looker,” said the first voice. Jazz ground his dentae as he listened. “Put him off if you want, but don’t push him away too hard. If anyone is going to notice something’s wrong, it’s his conjunx.”

Prowl paused. “I know. I’ll do what is required. I’m sure I’ll find some way to get my charge up.” Prowl’s voice lowered into a lecherous growl. “Worst comes to worst, I’ll imagine that he’s my last partner. He had the most amazing processor.”

The recording ended, and silence fell across the three mechs. Jazz gripped the edge of the counter tightly as he tried to process what he had just heard.

Finally, Hound said, “I think we need to call in some help.”

* * *

Orion Pax listened to the recording, then looked up at the other mechs in the room. “That is certainly damning, if it is a true recording,” he said.

“I’ll say,” said Smokescreen. He took the data pad from Orion and looked through the other files on it. 

“There’s also reports and budgets and stuff,” said Jazz. “But none of us are really number mechs. It all looks fine to me, so it might not be anything.”

“Let me take a look,” Smokescreen said, and sat down at the table on the other side of the room. 

Orion sat back in his chair. “I am puzzled. Why would a mech record a conversation like that?”

“Maybe they didn’t know they were being recorded,” said Bluestreak.

“But then how did it get on Prowl’s data pad?” Jazz asked. “And why did Prowl... err, whoever’s in his helm... put that pad in with my stuff?”

“Well, I think I figured out the who, anyway,” said Smokescreen from the table.

“Who?” Jazz said, jumping to his pedes. “Because I’m gonna put ‘em through a wall when I get my hands on ‘em.”

“This report, and the budgets that are attached... Prowl is doing some serious manipulation of the numbers here,” Smokescreen said. He glanced up, and then tilted his door wings apologetically at Jazz. “Sorry. Whoever’s in his processor is manipulating them, I guess. Look,” he said, pointing at some information on the pad. “If you compare these budget numbers to the ones in the report, he’s making one firm look really good, and the others look like slag.”

Orion took the data pad from Smokescreen and tapped through the files again. He nodded, and then glanced around the room. “I have some contacts in the Iacon police department,” he said. “I will call in some favours.”

* * *

Orion Pax’s contact in the police department put him in touch with Nightbeat. Over a vid-link, the detective reviewed the files Hound had found on the data pad. After putting the comm on hold for what seemed like a very long time, he reopened the call with a grim look on his face.

“This information corroborates the intelligence that we’ve already gathered as part of an investigation into possible fraud,” Nightbeat said. “We received a complaint from Deputy Minister Avalanche’s office regarding possible collusion on the bidding process for the New Praxus contract, and we had several mechs under surveillance as a result.”

Jazz hugged his arms to his chest as he listened. “Who were you watchin’?” Jazz asked, wanting a name as a focus for his anger.

Nightbeat shook his helm ruefully. “Actually, our main surveillance target was Prowl,” he said. “The information we’d been able to gather indicated that he was at the center of the scheme. Based on what you’ve provided here, it looks like we were right. He is at the center of the scheme… Just not in the way we originally thought.” The detective pressed his lips into a thin line as he added, “And this also opens the possibility that Prowl may be in a huge amount of danger. We’re going to have to act quickly.”

Jazz nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. He leaned into the arm that Bluestreak put around his shoulders. 

Nightbeat crossed his arms and bowed his helm, appearing to be deep in thought for a long moment. Then he looked up and said, “Yes, I think there is. Tell me... Do you know how much of your Special Operations protocols are still in place?”

“My original protocols are still installed,” Jazz said. “But I don’t have any of the sub-programs or other tools to make much use of them.

As Jazz explained, Nightbeat nodded. “No, that’s fine. Just the protocols are sufficient for what I have in mind, if you’re willing.”

“Anything, if it means savin’ Prowl... And gettin’ the glitches who did this to him,” Jazz responded without hesitation.

Plans were made. In two cycles, Jazz would return to Iacon with an escort from the Enforcers. In the meantime, he would stay at Hound and Bluestreak’s home. Jazz reflected that in the past few deca-cycles, their home had seemed more welcoming and safe than his own. 

“Here,” said Bluestreak later that evening, handing Jazz a cube of energon. “You look like you could use this.” 

Jazz took the cube gratefully, and Bluestreak settled into the chair next to Jazz on the porch. He watched the zap-ponies graze unconcernedly in their field. “I just want him to be ok,” Jazz said finally.

“I know,” said Bluestreak. “We all do.”

Leaning back in his chair, Jazz took a long sip from his cube. “I wish that I’d realized sooner that somethin’ was wrong. But everythin’ that was wrong… everythin’ that wasn’t Prowl… I twisted myself into knots tryin’ to explain it away. He was busy. He was stressed. It was just his work.” Jazz exvented and leaned his head back. “If only I’d seen…”

“Hey!” Bluestreak leaned over and grabbed Jazz’s hand. “None of this is your fault. And like you said, how could you possibly have known that something like this was happening? You have no blame in this at all.”

Jazz shook his helm. “I know that, Blue. But it’s one thing to know it, and it’s another to believe it, truly, in your spark. And the ‘what ifs’ just won’t stop.” Jazz looked down at his cube. “What if he ends up blamin’ me for not seein’ this earlier? What if he’s not in there anymore? What if...” Jazz brought his visor up to look at Bluestreak again. “What if I lose him?”

Bluestreak twisted around to grab both of Jazz’s hands. “I hope you don’t lose him, Jazz. Nightbeat said there are mechs all across the city, working to make sure that you get Prowl back.”

“I know. I’m just... I’m just...”

“You’re just scared. I know. We all are,” said Bluestreak, giving Jazz’s hands a squeeze.

Jazz growled. “Yeah, I’m scared. But I am right fragged off, too.” He pulled away from Bluestreak and stood, walking to the porch railing. He watched Homer graze closer to Marge before lifting his head and nuzzling the other zap-pony. “I mean, on the one hand, it’s a relief. I thought... I thought he didn’t love me anymore.” Jazz worked his intake for a moment before continuing. “But all that slag that happened... What he did to me... That wasn’t my Prowler after all.” He turned his helm to look at Bluestreak, who had joined him at the railing. “You have no idea how relieved that makes me feel.” 

Bluestreak smiled. “I’m very relieved too, Jazz.” He bumped his shoulder against Jazz’s gently. “Before, when I was telling you how good you were for Prowl, how happy you made him... I see the same thing with you. Whenever I see you look at him, I can almost see you going all gooey inside.” When Jazz laughed, Bluestreak added, “And when we realized what was probably happening, that someone else was inside Prowl’s head, controlling him and doing all those awful things... When that sunk in, yeah, you looked fragged off. But it also looked like a huge weight had been lifted from your shoulders.” The Praxian looked out at the zap-ponies and grinned when he saw Marge nip at Homer’s flank. “You’re like two opposite poles of a magnet. One of you without the other is just... not complete.”

Jazz returned the bump to Bluestreak’s shoulder. “Thanks, Blue. That’s a real sweet thing for ya to say. And I think it’s the total truth.” He took a deep vent. Jazz had the support of his friends and law enforcement. They had a plan. He had a goal. “And now... I just wanna get my Prowler back. And I want to see those fraggin’ glitches who did this to him get what’s comin’ to them.”

* * *

A few cycles later, Jazz found himself in a warehouse at the edge of Iacon City, going over his part in the plan again. The warehouse was filled with several dozen Enforcer mechs, purposefully preparing for the operation that was about to take place. 

Jazz nodded at Nightbeat impatiently. “I got it,” he said. “I used to be Special Ops, ya know.”

Nightbeat frowned at the Polyhexian. “My understanding was that you were missing a great deal of your memories. Your past experiences won’t be much help if you can’t recall them.”

Exventing dramatically, Jazz waved a hand in the air. “All right, fine, yeah, I’m just trying to make myself feel better,” he said. 

“Please... Try not to move around so much. I’m almost done here,” Triage said. The medic was patched into Jazz’s medical port.

Jazz stilled. “So... What’s this program gonna do to Prowl?” he asked. “My Prowl, I mean.”

“It shouldn’t do anything to any resident memories,” Triage said. “All it will do is shut down all comms, processor activity, and frame control, and put him into stasis lock. That should prevent them from doing a remote wipe as soon as they realize what’s happening.” After another klik, Triage said, “There, I’m finished.” The medic unplugged from Jazz’s port and let him sit up. 

“The danger will be if there’s a failsafe payload in whatever they’re using to control him,” Nightbeat said. “Or if...”

“If he’s already been erased, or his memory files corrupted, or... I know,” Jazz said quietly. He rubbed his forehelm. “I’m tryin’ not to think about those possibilities.” 

Nightbeat looked down at the datapad he was holding and then back up at Jazz. “We’ll be in holding positions around all of the suspects’ locations until we receive confirmation that Prowl has been taken offline.” He frowned. “Are you certain you’ll be able to – uh, deliver the program to him within a few groons of his returning?”

Jazz grimaced as he pictured what ‘delivering the program’ was going to entail. “If he’s not in the mood as soon as he comes home, I’ll just have to convince him he wants it.” He flashed a bright smile that he didn’t feel at the detective. “I can be very persuasive.”

Nodding, Nightbeat said, “All right. I just don’t want you hurt.”

A chill ran down Jazz’s back strut as he remembered the sort of hurt that Nightbeat was referring to. He flinched when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. The hand gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, and Jazz looked up at Mirage. “Don’t worry,” said Mirage. “I’ll be right there with you.”

“Thanks, Raj,” Jazz said gratefully.


	6. Rescue

Jazz plinked at his keyboard unenthusiastically as his tanks churned and his spark fluttered anxiously in his chest. He took a deep full vent to center himself. All he could do right now was wait for Prowl to come home.

The surveillance team had reported that Prowl had left his office, and was making his way to their flat. In just a few kliks he should be arriving home, and the plan would be set in motion. 

Jazz knew that during the war he must have worked operations something like this hundreds of times, if not thousands of times. He’d been in Special Operations, and Jazz had been the go-to mech for the dirty stuff. He’d read his personnel files a few times over the two hundred vorn since regaining his partial memories, but he had no recollection of most of the missions he read about. 

Using his own frame and processor to sabotage Decepticon units and infrastructure had been his speciality. This plan was almost identical to some of the missions he’d carried out during the war.

The only difference was that this time, his target was Prowl.

Jazz bowed his helm over his keyboard. He clenched his hands into fists, then rested his digits on the keys.

All he could do was wait.

So Jazz played. He let the notes flow from his digits and over his audials, swirling around and expressing the melancholy he felt in his spark. He offlined his visor, picturing **his** Prowl, the Prowl he knew before this violation had been done to him, before some unknown monster had taken over his lover and made him hurt. Made both of them hurt.

The notes turned hopeful as Jazz thought of Mirage, standing in the room unseen, and the other mechs around the city who were working to help him save Prowl and to bring these monsters to justice.

He was so engrossed in his music that he missed the soft noise of the door opening, and so he startled and whirled around, visor blazing in surprise, when he heard Prowl’s voice. “Jazz.”

Prowl was standing in the hallway, looking at Jazz with a decidedly surprised expression. “Hey Prowler,” Jazz drawled, standing up from the bench with a relaxed stance that he did not feel. “Just made it home from Kaon this mornin’. Sorry I didn’t comm ya to tell ya that I was comin’.”

“I would have appreciated a note saying that you were on your way,” said Prowl, setting a stack of data pads down on his desk. He looked back up, and Jazz suppressed a shiver at the possessive glint that he saw in Prowl’s optics. “But I did miss you…” Prowl purred, stepping closer to Jazz, reaching a hand out to brush his helm. “And that delicious processor of yours.”

Jazz felt a sudden flash of fear as Prowl’s hand reached for him. To give himself time to dampen the emotions in his field, Jazz laughed and sidestepped Prowl’s hand, waltzing into the kitchen. “So, don’t ya want to know how my trip went?” he asked. He poured a cube of energon and handed it to Prowl, hoping to keep the other mech’s hands busy. “After all, this was the first gig I had out that way.”

Prowl accepted the cube but set it on the counter without drinking any. He walked around the island, reaching out for Jazz again. “You can tell me about it later,” he purred, and grabbed Jazz’s hand. He held Jazz’s gaze with his own as he pulled Jazz towards him. “Right now I only want you.”

The leer that crossed Prowl’s face sent a shiver down Jazz’s back strut, but he shoved down the apprehension that rose within him. Jazz pulled his field tight and peered into Prowl’s optics, looking for a sign – anything! – that Prowl was still in there.

But all he saw was a stranger looking back out at him.

His fear was suddenly replaced by determination and resolve... Resolve to get this monster out of his lover’s helm once and for all. 

Flicking his field out coyly against Prowl’s, Jazz flashed a dazzling smile at the Praxian. “Who am I to turn down an invitation like that?” Jazz asked, and dragged the tip of a digit across Prowl’s hip port. He was rewarded with a sudden gasp of air from Prowl’s vents, and he took that opportunity to spin Prowl and pin him against the counter. He nipped at Prowl’s chin. “How about once here, then we go again in my room?” 

Prowl pulled another ragged vent of air and his hip port slid open. His field burned with lust. “That would be agreeable,” he said, his vocalizer quavering, and unspooled his cable. He fumbled for Jazz’s hip port as the Polyhexian pressed him against the edge of the counter.

“Allow me, lover,” Jazz purred, and took the cable from Prowl’s digits. He clipped the connector into his port, then slid his own cable into Prowl’s. As soon as he felt his cable click into place he sent a burst of data over the line to buy himself one more klik.

Prowl’s optics flared white at the burst of data. [[Just like I remember. That processor of yours... It is so irresistible.]] Prowl’s field flared with need and want, and his hands pawed at Jazz’s hips. [[Now, Jazz. Now. I **need** you.]]

The glyphs held the promise that Prowl intended to take what he wanted if it wasn’t given. 

But this time, Jazz was more than willing to give the monster in Prowl’s helm what he wanted, and more.

Jazz caught Prowl’s lips in his and bit down lightly, drawing a moan from Prowl. [[Take it, lover. Take whatever you need.]]

Even though he was ready for it this time, the cascade of data that Prowl suddenly sent through the connection still caught Jazz by surprise in its force. Prowl’s hands tightened on his upper arms. [[Yes, Jazz. **This** is what you’ve made me want.]] 

Jazz gritted his dentae as he felt Prowl pulling more and more data through the hardline, steeling himself against the burning in his processor.

It hurt, far more than the previous two times this stranger had interfaced with him. Jazz held Prowl’s hips, both to keep the other mech from moving and to steady himself. He whimpered slightly, refocusing himself on why he was doing this. Why he was allowing this. What he hoped that Prowl, if he was still active, could hear. [[I love you, Prowler.]]

All Jazz got in return was the roar of Prowl’s engine as the mech controlling him greedily sucked up bandwidth. [[More. I need **more**.]] Prowl’s optics blazed white as he maxed out the hardline, hitting the caps on how fast the sensations he was sending through Jazz and back to himself could be transferred. 

His mouth gaping open in pain, Jazz looked at Prowl’s face. The Praxian’s optics were sightlessly white as he neared overload, and his helm was rocked slightly back in ecstasy. Jazz fought to collect himself, leaning hard against Prowl’s frame. [[You want more, ya fragger? Here it is.]]

Jazz launched the program that Triage had installed in his subroutines, and flicked it into the datastream that Prowl was drawing from him. 

Instantly, a garbled squeal of feedback tore from Prowl’s vocalizer, and his optics flickered wildly. His hands clenched spasmodically on Jazz’s upper arms as his frame shook. Then, with a sickening buzzing sound, Prowl’s frame seized completely before going slack.

As the connection failed, the world spun, and Jazz heard the rattle of armor against flooring. Jazz suddenly found himself staring at the ceiling. 

He tried to get up. He tried to move his helm. He tried to say something. Nothing worked. Jazz felt a rising alarm and tried to access his diagnostic systems, but they seemed to be offline.

He remembered Nightbeat cautioning that whatever they were using to control Prowl might have a failsafe if it was tampered with.

Just as Jazz thought he would totally surrender to the panic of being stuck in a completely non-responsive frame, Mirage shimmered into view directly over him. Mirage turned to look at something on the floor beside Jazz, then looked down at the Polyhexian. Jazz saw Mirage’s lips move, but no sound came out. The white and blue mech frowned, then pulled out one of his data cables and jacked into Jazz’s medical port.

[[Jazz? Are you functioning?]]

[[I’m online, Raj, but I can’t move. Can’t hear. Diagnostics are down. But – Prowl! How is he?]]

Mirage’s optics flicked to the side, then back down to Jazz. [[He’s offline and in stasis, just as Triage explained. I’ve commed the Enforcers, and there are medics on the way.]] His lips pressed into a thin line. [[They’re asking me to drop you into stasis to prevent further damage until a medic can examine you.]]

[[Wait! Let me see Prowl first!]]

Mirage nodded, and tipped Jazz’s helm to the side. Beside him on the floor was Prowl’s still frame. The Praxian’s optics were dark, and his mouth was slightly open. Their cables were still tangled together, the cords lying slack across his hips.

He looked like he was in recharge. Jazz just hoped that when Prowl finally woke, it would be Prowl behind those optics and not some other mech.

[[I’m going to initiate stasis now, Jazz.]] Mirage’s words came across with a touch of [[worry/anxiety]].

[[Yeah. Do it. And Raj... Thanks for being here.]] Jazz tried to convey as much of his gratitude as he could through the hardline. [[I don’t think I coulda done this without knowing you were here.]]

[[You are very welcome, Jazz. Anything I could do to help you.]]

Then everything went dark.

* * *

Awareness came back slowly. First Jazz heard a machine beeping quietly, a faint shuffle of pedes on floor, and the echoing sounds of mechs in another room. He could feel a jack in the medical port on his neck. He was lying down.

As he finished his boot cycle, his optics powered up. His processor ran a quick diagnostic scan, and everything came back green. Jazz dismissed all of the reports and refocused on the face hovering over his.

“Hey, Ratchet,” Jazz croaked.

Some of the tension left Ratchet’s expression. “Jazz. Good to see you awake again,” he said. The medic turned to look at a monitor next to the berth that Jazz was lying on. “Are you getting any errors? Any processor pain?”

“No and no,” Jazz replied. As his full sensor suite came online, Jazz tried to sit up to look around but discovered he was tied down. Huffing, he looked back up at Ratchet. “Prowl... Is Prowl ok?”

Ratchet looked back down at Jazz. “He’s still in recovery. The chip they were using on him caused a fair amount of damage.” When Jazz’s field flared with alarm, Ratchet put a comforting hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t anything we couldn’t fix. He should make a full recovery. It’ll just take him time to rebuild the sectors that were corrupted. Fortunately, the specialists don’t think that anything was lost.” He reached across Jazz’s frame and unclipped the restraints. “And sorry about this. I was always cautious about bringing Spec Ops mechs back online, and old habits die hard. Sit up slowly, please.” 

“I understand, Ratch,” Jazz said. When he sat up, his vision swam, and he was suddenly grateful for the warning to move carefully. “So what happened to me?” he asked as he waited for his vision to clear. “Was it blowback from whatever they were using on Prowl?”

Ratchet nodded. “That, and residual from the virus you uploaded to Prowl. Just before his processor shut down, the chip they were using on him launched its attack program. Then when he fell offline, remnants of the virus’s code were left in your memory.” He pulled the plugs from Jazz’s medical port and wound them back onto the diagnostic monitor he’d been hooked up to. “It was a little messy to clean out, but you shouldn’t have any lasting effects.”

When Ratchet turned back to face him, Jazz reached out a hand to grasp the medic’s arm. “And whoever did this to Prowl... Please tell me that they got ‘em,” he growled.

With a curt nod, Ratchet said, “They did.” His field held a firm feel of satisfaction. “Three of them, and they are questioning the rest of the firm’s employees.” He held Jazz’s gaze. “They just took them in a few groons ago, but it sounds like they have more than enough evidence to prosecute them.”

“What’re their designations?” Jazz snarled. “Who was the slagger in Prowl?”

Ratchet’s expression shifted slightly, his optics becoming wary. “The one who was controlling Prowl is Spinup. He had some ties to the Institute before becoming a Neutral during the war... He’s only been back on Cybertron a few vorn.” He put a hand back on Jazz’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “But remember... You’re a civilian now. Leave this to the enforcers. Nightbeat will be around later to get a statement from you.”

Jazz paused. Ratchet was right. After he was revived, he’d had the option of reenlisting as a member of the Cybertronian Security Forces. Instead, he had decided that he’d had enough of fighting and conflict, and took up his music again. After all, that is what he was sparked to do. It’s what really made him happy.

It also meant that infiltrating the holding cells where Prowl’s tormenters were being kept and giving them a taste of their own medicine was out of the question, no matter how appealing he found the thought.

He nodded, reluctantly. “A’ight,” he said. He pulled a full vent cycle to dispel the anger that had risen in him while thinking about those mechs had done to Prowl, and refocused his thoughts. “When do ya think Prowl will wake up?”

Ratchet shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. Like I said, he’s in recovery mode now. We’re monitoring him closely, and once most of his sectors are repaired we’ll take him out of stasis and let him wake up on his own. Maybe a cycle or two.”

Jazz nodded. “I want to be there when you do.”

Ratchet’s optics widened and he stared at Jazz for a moment. Then he laughed and shook his helm. “Prowl said exactly the same thing to me, back after your frame was found. He wanted to be there when you booted up.” Sensing the anxiety that had suddenly leaked into Jazz’s field, Ratchet patted Jazz’s shoulder again. “Don’t worry. His damage is nowhere near as extensive as yours was. I’m sure he’ll remember you. And I’ll make sure you’re there when he wakes up.”

* * *

The darkness was expected. Prowl had come to expect the nothingness that he had lived in for what felt like ages. The only reprieve he’d gotten was when his puppetmaster was distracted, and he was able to claw his way to the surface.

But this time was different. He could feel things. A hard surface against his back, with soft supports for his door wings. Faint sounds of activity, possibly in another room. Another mech’s field, rich with feelings of worry and fatigue and love.

He suddenly realized was feeling these things directly, without having them filtered through someone else. Prowl twitched in disbelief, flexing his digits slightly. He felt that someone was holding his hand, their digits entwined. The other mech gave his hand a squeeze in return.

“Prowler?”

Hardly daring to hope, Prowl sent the command to online his optics. As his optical sensors adjusted to the room’s brightness, a face resolved itself in his vision.

Jazz.

A relieved smile lit up the musician’s face. “Ah, Prowler,” he murmured quietly. “There ya are.”

Prowl had always prided himself on having excellent control of his emotions. It’s not that he didn’t feel anything, but that he held back his reactions to those emotions until an appropriate time. Even during the height of the war, after Jazz had been declared dead, he had been able to keep a firm grasp on his emotional displays. It was only immediately after Jazz had vanished that Prowl had been unable to contain the feelings that wracked his spark. 

But now, when he saw Jazz’s face, all of the anger, sorrow, frustration and fear that Prowl had felt but had been unable to express for ages came roaring to the surface in a torrent. Clinging to Jazz’s hand, he brought the other mech’s digits to his cheek as a warbling keen escaped his vocalizer.

He tried to speak, but his vocal processor was overwhelmed by the sobs that consumed him. He was conscious only that Jazz had pulled him to a partial sitting position so that he could wrap his arms tightly around Prowl.

After a few kliks, Prowl became aware that Jazz was murmuring in his audial. “Oh Prowl. My poor Prowler. You’re safe now, lover.”

No. No, this was all wrong. He tried again to speak and explain, but his voice glitched again. Finally, as he leaned into Jazz’s embrace, he got his ventilations under control. “Jazz, I am so sorry,” he whispered, trying to avoid the clicking and distortion he knew his voice would still hold if he spoke aloud. “I tried. I tried to stop him. But I could not. I could not do anything, and then he –“ His vocalizer warbled into static again as he recalled exactly what his puppetmaster had done to Jazz.

Jazz was speaking again, and Prowl had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. “Prowler, listen. Ya **did** stop him. Ya left me a message, stuck in my datapads.” Jazz hugged him tighter as he spoke, and emotion began cracking the edge of his voice as well. “I just wish I’d found it sooner. I wish I’d seen what it was sooner. Maybe we could have-“ Jazz’s reset his vocalizer. “Maybe we could have gotten ya outta there before this, if I’d have seen it.” Jazz finally pulled back, his visor glowing a bright blue as he looked at Prowl. “But I **did** find it, and we **did** get ya outta there.” He gave Prowl a fragile smile, brushing his thumbs across the planes of Prowl’s cheeks. “ **You** did it.”

He’d done it. Jazz had somehow found the datapad that Prowl had managed to hide in his belongings so long ago. How long had it been? It felt like an eternity. His memory had begun stringing images and sounds together into a timeline for him, but there were still unknowable gaps during which Prowl had been forced down into the darkness. So much had happened that he hadn’t seen, but Prowl clung to Jazz’s words. 

He had done it.

“The mechs who did this,” Prowl rasped. “Where are they? What happened?”

Jazz began to tell him.

Jazz explained how, after being attacked by Prowl a second time, he had fled Iacon to stay with Bluestreak and Hound. He told Prowl how he’d seen the datapad and discarded it in frustration, but that Hound had put the pieces together and asked to see the datapad again. He explained how they had found the recording of the meeting with Hardhelm, and the records of the fraudulent numbers. He told Prowl how they had contacted the enforcers, and with them formulated a plan.

Prowl’s tanks churned as Jazz calmly told him how he had returned home, and lured Prowl’s puppetmaster into interfacing with him so that he could inject the virus into his system. Then, after receiving Mirage’s signal that Prowl was safe, the enforcers swept into Hardhelm’s offices and the flat where Spinup’s frame was being maintained.

In total, the enforcers had taken seven mechs into custody. Three of them were the ringleaders, aware of not only the scheme to fix the competition for the contract, but also of the attack on Prowl. Hardhelm, Blueprint and Spinup were being held without bail, waiting for trial. Three more employees of the firm had also been charged with fraud-related crimes, as was one employee of the Ministry of Reconstruction who had been brought into the scheme. The investigators had looked into Prowl’s actions that he had taken prior to the attack, and found nothing untoward that he could be charged with. 

Telling the story seemed to take a lot out of Jazz, but he squeezed Prowl’s hand tightly and smiled down at him. “Nightbeat’s workin’ to see that they throw everything they can at these glitches,” he said, a dangerous-looking smile on his lips. “There’s gonna be a trial. They’re probably gonna need me to testify. They might need you, too. But once that’s done...” He leaned down and rested the crest of his helm on Prowl’s, his visor glowing brightly as he stared into Prowl’s optics. “Once that’s done, it’ll be over. We can get back to how things were before, lover.”

How they were before? Prowl’s processor reeled that Jazz even thought that was a possibility. His ventilations hitched again and pulled away, shaking his helm. “Jazz,” he whispered. “I... I hurt you. Out of all the mechs I have ever cared about, throughout the war and after, you were the only one who I never purposefully hurt, or put in harm’s way without regard for your safety. But now...”

Jazz’s hand whipped out to grab Prowl by the chin, tipping his helm up to look directly at him. “Prowler, it wasn’t you who hurt me.”

As he shook his helm, Prowl felt the words tumble out of his vocalizer before he even knew he was thinking them. “No, Jazz. I could have done something more. I could have... have... I could have left some other clue somehow. Something you would find faster. I could have found a different way. Some way so that he would not have hurt you. So that my frame would not have hurt you. I could have –“

His increasingly hysterical words were suddenly muffled by the press of lips to his. When Jazz pulled back and looked down at him, his expression was serious, but his field was full of love and acceptance. “I don’t blame ya for anything, Prowler,” he said firmly. “We’re gonna work through this, side by side, and we’re gonna come out the other side even stronger than we were before.” Folding Prowl into another embrace, he whispered, “I promise.”


	7. Recovery

Prowl nodded to the receptionist who ushered him into the psychiatrist’s office and closed the door behind him. Standing up from behind his desk, the orange minibot gestured to the pair of chairs arranged near the window. “Hello, Prowl. It’s good to see you again. Please, have a seat.”

Sitting in the offered chair, Prowl tipped his door wings forward. “Thank you, Rung.” He watched as Rung sat across from him. “Although I admit that I will be happier once these visits are no longer necessary.”

Rung smiled ruefully. “Nothing would make me happier than having no one in need of my services,” he said. “But I doubt that will happen any time soon.” The psychiatrist looked down at the datapad in his hand for a moment before looking back up at Prowl. “Before we begin, was there anything you’d like to discuss first?”

Folding his hands in his lap, Prowl said, “I would like to know how many more sessions I will need to attend before you sign off on my suitability to return to work.”

Before being discharged from the medical centre, Ratchet had informed Prowl that he would not be permitted back to work unless he was cleared to do so by a psychiatrist. “We’ve repaired the damage to your memory relays and processor, but we can’t just go in and undo the mental trauma. Not without resorting to a mnemosurgeon,” Ratchet had said. When Prowl had bristled at the suggestion, Ratchet held up a hand and said, “Which we will not do without your permission, of course. But that won’t change the fact that you need to heal mentally from what was done to you. Mental health was set aside for millennia during the war out of sheer necessity, but I am not going to dismiss it any longer.”

Prowl had lifted his door wings as he’d stared at Ratchet in disbelief. “You cannot prevent me from going back to work! After all that has happened, I will have so much to catch up on. The contracts alone will need to be completely redone, as will the –“

Ratchet cut Prowl off and smiled grimly as he handed Prowl a datapad. “That’s an official medical leave of absence, signed by Minister Avalanche himself,” the medic said. He waited until Prowl read the pad, his door wings sagging. Ratchet’s expression softened. “I know you thrive on your work, Prowl. But I know you didn’t even take a break after your own trial after the war. You need to take some time for yourself. Once you’ve worked through what happened and you get a signoff that you’re ready, you can get back to work.” He patted Prowl on the shoulder. “Just think of it as one more medical order from me.”

With a frown, Prowl had nodded. Maybe a few deca-cycles to recover from what Spinup had done wasn’t too much to ask.

But it had now been almost two whole orbital cycles since Prowl had been freed, and the restriction from going back to work was starting to chafe.

In his office, Rung tilted his helm slightly. “How many more sessions you will need depends on you. Do you really find these discussions so onerous? Have you really found that they are of no use to you?”

Prowl considered Rung’s question before answering. He had always been a private mech, so opening up to Rung – someone who used to work for **him!** – was difficult. “I admit that some of the techniques you’ve taught me have been useful,” he said finally. “But... Not being able to work makes me feel... useless.” He looked at the psychiatrist, doing his best to look as sincere as he felt. “I **like** being busy. I **like** feeling useful.”

Rung nodded. “I understand. What if I signed off on a partial return? Part time, starting with three cycles per deca-cycle. You’ll keep attending the sessions with me in the meantime, and together we can monitor your progress. Would that be acceptable?”

Prowl could not keep his door wings from fluttering slightly in excitement. Returning to work, even part time, was more that he had expected to take away from this appointment. “That would be very appreciated, Rung. Thank you.”

With a nod, Rung made a notation on his datapad before looking up at Prowl. “I’m adding a stipulation that you are to take no work home with you, and maintain regular work hours. Understood?”

“Of course.” Prowl suppressed a smile; he knew that Jazz would tattle on him if he overstepped the agreed-upon conditions.

“Excellent. Now then... Have you had any more nightmares during recharge in the past deca-cycle?”

Prowl’s door wings froze at the question. He should have known it was coming; his nightmares had been a topic at almost every session since he’d started seeing Rung. Prowl ground his dentae, but replied truthfully. He had promised Jazz that he would not lie to get out of these sessions. “Yes. Two.” He dropped his gaze down to his hands. “I dreamt that I was hurting Jazz.”

“In these nightmares, what were you doing that hurt Jazz?” Rung asked.

Prowl looked out the window. Rung’s office was in a small building, and the office only looked out onto the building next to it, but it was someplace to look that wasn’t directly at the psychiatrist. “In the first dream, we were interfacing, and I hurt him badly enough that he went offline.” Prowl took a deep vent before continuing. “In the second dream, I had removed his chest plate, and I was pulling wires and conduits out of his frame while…” Prowl’s voice crackled into static before he reset his vocalizer. “…while Jazz screamed at me to stop,” he finished.

“That sounds very disturbing.”

“It was.” Prowl glanced at Rung. “Although they were similar in theme to the other nightmares I’ve had.”

Rung nodded. “Have you told Jazz about these nightmares yet?”

“Not in any detail.” Prowl looked back out the window. “I do not want to worry him.”

“Don’t you think it might be helpful to talk about the nightmares with Jazz?”

Prowl glanced at Rung. “I cannot see how it would be beneficial to tell Jazz how my processor details various ways for me to hurt him.”

“Would you ever really do any of those things that you see yourself doing in these nightmares?”

“Of course not!” Prowl’s door wings lifted to his shoulders defensively.

Rung held up a hand placatingly. “I didn’t think so, but I thought you might need to hear yourself say it.”

“I would never harm Jazz.” A shiver went through Prowl’s frame as he remembered the images of Jazz screaming in pain as Spinup overstripped his interface connection. “He is everything to me,” Prowl added quietly.

With a nod, Rung glanced down at his datapad and flicked at it with his thumb. Prowl recognized the motion as Rung flipping to a new topic of discussion. “One more thing before we move on,” Rung said mildly. “When did you last interface with Jazz?”

Prowl stared at the minibot for a long moment before looking away again. “I... We have not. Interfaced. Not since…”

“Since when?” Rung asked.

Prowl forced his wings back down to a neutral position. “I have not interfaced with Jazz since before this whole thing started.” He stared fixedly out the window at a rivet in the neighbouring building. “Jazz has not interfaced with my frame since he deployed the virus.”

“Is that by mutual agreement? Neither of you are interested?”

Prowl focused on counting all of the rivets surrounding the other building’s window. Jazz was more than willing to interface, something that Prowl simply could not understand. How could he be so eager to do something that had caused him so much pain before? He did not even seem to care when Prowl told him how Spinup had purchased buymechs while Jazz had been staying with Bluestreak and Hound, seeking the same stimulation in his stolen frame that he had found in Jazz. 

But Prowl knew that Jazz wanted to interface. He did not pressure Prowl in any way and always backed down when Prowl said he was not ready, but he made it clear that he would be willing whenever Prowl was. Prowl enjoyed their quiet moments together, cuddled together on the couch as they watched the news feeds, but he resisted taking it any further than that. Prowl did not want to frighten Jazz or be the cause of any more pain. 

Jazz had been through enough.

“No,” Prowl finally said, his voice curt. He had promised to tell the truth. “Jazz would like to interface. He has told me so. But... He was traumatized. He needs time to heal.”

“Don’t you think you should let Jazz make that decision, rather than making it for him?” The psychiatrist waited until Prowl’s optics looked his way again before continuing. “If Jazz truly needs more time, then you are very right to give him that time. But if **you** need more time, don’t pretend that you’re waiting on Jazz.” He lifted one of his eyebrows. “If **Jazz** says he’d like to interface, then maybe you should take that at face value. If **you** are not ready to interface, then say that.”

Prowl pulled a full vent cycle as he considered Rung’s words, then flicked his door wings. “You are correct,” he said quietly. “I am not sure I am ready.” He looked down. “I just cannot understand how Jazz can be so resilient.”

As soon as the words left his vocalizer, Prowl knew that they were wrong. Jazz had **always** been resilient. Before his accident, his ability to adapt to adversity and switch direction on the fly was invaluable during his spy missions. After the war, once his frame had been found and reconstructed, Jazz struggled a bit with his lost memories. But it didn’t take long for him to make peace with what he couldn’t remember, and set about making new memories with the friends that he had rediscovered... And with Prowl.

Even as Prowl was admitting to himself that Jazz was by far the more resilient of the two of them, Rung said, “You said that Jazz was traumatized. So were you. But don’t put words in Jazz’s mouth. Make sure you understand how he really feels, without making assumptions.” Prowl could feel the minibot’s optics on him as he spoke. “If you want more time before attempting to interface, that’s a valid feeling. If you decide you never want to interface again, that’s valid too. Whatever you want to do, though, you should discuss it with Jazz, because this will affect him.”

Nodding, Prowl said, “I know.” Prowl knew that he had been treating Jazz like he was constructed out of fragile glass. He voiced the realization that he had just come to. “Jazz deserves to know why I keep putting him off.”

Prowl had attended enough sessions with Rung that he should have anticipated the next question, but it still caught him off guard. “Why **are** you putting him off? Does it have something to do with your nightmares?”

“No. Yes.” Prowl flicked his door wings again. “Perhaps. I am... I am afraid of hurting Jazz again.”

“Really?” Rung lifted both eyebrows. “But didn’t you just finish telling me how you would never hurt Jazz?”

Prowl sat back in his chair and stared at Rung. “Yes.” Then he shook his helm. “But I might do it in error. I might do it inadvertently.” Prowl frowned. “I do not want to take that risk.”

Rung smiled gently at Prowl. “In all the vorn I have known you, Prowl, you have always acted methodically, and with purpose. I honestly do not think you would hurt ever Jazz, either by accident nor on purpose.” He leaned forward slightly to keep Prowl’s gaze fixed on him. “Maybe it’s time for you to forgive yourself for what happened in the past, and think about taking some chances that will let you move forward.”

* * *

Prowl slipped into the flat quietly. As soon as he keyed open the door, he could hear Jazz playing his laser harp. 

He paused just inside the door to listen, letting the interwoven melody and harmony flow over him. The song was slow and thoughtful, and he could hear Jazz singing softly along with it. It was not a song that Prowl recognized, and he wondered if it was an original piece that Jazz was working on. 

Suddenly Jazz hit a series of wrong notes, and the music stopped. “I heard ya come in, Prowler,” Jazz called. 

With a smile, Prowl came around the corner into the living area. “I wanted to just listen without disturbing you,” he said. “I always like hearing you play.”

A faint shadow crossed Jazz’s expression as he rose to greet his conjunx. “I know ya do, Prowler,” he said. “You’ve always liked listenin’ to me play.” Wrapping Prowl in a hug, he kissed him gently. “Did ya enjoy your walk?” 

Prowl had commed Jazz upon leaving Rung’s office. Ever since Prowl had been freed from the mind-control chip, the two mechs had been keeping close tabs on each other’s whereabouts, and would keep each other updated if their plans changed even by a few kliks. After his session, Prowl wanted some time alone to walk around the memorial gardens and think about what he and Rung had discussed. 

Prowl nodded. “Yes. The square was almost empty today. I had lots of time to think,” he said. Prowl leaned back so he could look at Jazz squarely. “If you have time, I would like to discuss today’s session with you.”

“I always have time for you,” Jazz said. He twirled away from Prowl and turned back to his instrument. “Let me just put my harp away and you’ll have my full attention.”

Prowl sat on the edge of the couch and watched as Jazz carefully packed the harp into its case. “Your skill with the harp has improved dramatically over the past orbital cycle,” he said. “That song you were playing... Is it an original composition?”

Jazz shook his helm as he closed the latches on the case. “Nah. It’s an old Vosian love song,” he said. He stood and joined Prowl on the couch. With a grin, he added, “I’m performin’ at a union ceremony later this deca-cycle, and the mechs wanted me to play that for ‘em.”

“I would be happy to hear the song in its entirety,” Prowl said. A smile lit up his optics as he remembered some of the other love songs he’d heard Jazz play over the vorn together. 

“You got it,” Jazz said, then leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, turning so he could face Prowl. “So, what did ya want to talk about?”

Prowl thought about the conversation he’d had with Rung, and the battle he had fought with himself afterwards while walking through the memorial gardens. He knew that Rung was right: he had been putting off interfacing with Jazz because he was afraid of... Of what? That he would hurt Jazz? 

He looked at Jazz’s open expression, and felt his spark’s spin stutter. He had never loved anyone as wholly and completely as he loved Jazz. He could not fathom hurting Jazz, even by accident. 

Prowl just had to trust himself.

Reaching out to take Jazz’s hand, Prowl said, “I want to talk to you about interfacing.” He saw Jazz’s visor brighten slightly, but he held up a digit to silence anything that Jazz was about to say. “Let me continue.” When Jazz nodded, Prowl pulled a full vent cycle before continuing. “You have been extraordinarily patient with me,” he said. “I know you have wanted to interface with me – the **real** me – but I have told you that I was not ready.”

Jazz nodded. “You can have as much time as ya need, Prowler,” he said. He brushed his thumb over the top of Prowl’s digits. “I’m willin’ to wait as long as it takes.”

“I appreciate that, Jazz,” Prowl said. He glanced down at their linked digits. “But I have not been entirely truthful with you as to why I was putting it off.” Looking back up at Jazz, he said, “I was afraid of... hurting you. Either on purpose, or by accident, or inadvertently by triggering some trauma in you.” His optics searched Jazz’s face. “And in doing so, I realize that I was not trusting you, nor myself.”

“I don’t think you’d ever hurt me, Prowler,” Jazz said. He squeezed Prowl’s digits slightly. “What happened before wasn’t you. And once I realized it wasn’t you doin’ those things to me...” He bowed his helm slightly before looking back up at Prowl. “It was a huge, slaggin’ relief. So whatever happened before is dust down the road to me. I hold no blame to you, and I ain’t afraid of ya. I’ve told ya that before.”

“I know,” Prowl said. He lowered his optics, letting the humble gratitude he was feeling spill into his field before it overwhelmed him. “Every morning when I come out of recharge, and you are still here, I praise Primus that you are so willing to overlook what happened.”

“No.” Jazz held up a digit, his face stern. “I ain’t overlookin’ **anything**. What happened to both of us was... Well, it was awful, and I cannot wait until those glitches are put into prison indefinitely. But what happened to me was **not** your fault.” He brought Prowl’s hand up to his lips for a brief kiss before continuing. “So, in the words of **my** therapist, I’m gonna ask ya to reframe that statement ya just made.”

Prowl stared at Jazz for a moment before smiling. “You are right,” he said. Thinking for a moment, he said, “Every morning when I come out of recharge, and you are still here, I... I praise Primus that you are willing to... stand by me while we work through this together?” He looked at Jazz uncertainly.

In response, Jazz grinned. “Much better.” 

Taking a deep pull of air through his vents, Prowl said, “While I know that you do not think that I would hurt you... I remain afraid that I **might** hurt you, somehow. And thus I have been afraid of interfacing.”

Jazz nodded. “Like I said, I’m all right with waitin’. As much time as ya need is fine with me.” He gave Prowl’s hand a caress with his thumb. “If it’ll take vorn, I’ll be here.”

“But that is just it. I do not know if I will ever stop being afraid,” Prowl said. He met Jazz’s gaze evenly, trying to calm the anxiety that rose within him at even the thought of crossing cables with Jazz. “Rung suggested that... I take a chance, to give myself a chance to succeed.” He squeezed his optics closed as he added, “I just wish there was a way for me to take that chance without possibly failing. Without involving you.”

Prowl opened his optics again when he felt a gentle brush of Jazz’s hand against the side of his helm. “I’m willin’ to take that chance with ya, Prowler,” Jazz said. “And if anything feels wrong – for either one of us – we can stop and figure out what’s happenin’ before goin’ any further.” The Polyhexian smiled encouragingly. “How does that sound?” he asked.

Prowl nodded. “That is acceptable,” he said, his door wings tipping downwards. 

“Good,” Jazz said, leaning forward and giving Prowl a quick hug. “So... When did ya want to try it? Later tonight, maybe after we’ve had our fuel? I could find a movie if ya want to watch somethin’ first –“

“Can we do it now?” Prowl asked hesitantly, his door wings fluttering nervously. When Jazz tilted his helm to the side questioningly, Prowl added, “I am afraid that if we delay any, I will... lose my nerve.”

Jazz laughed, and once more Prowl’s spark lifted at the melodic sound. “Sure thing, Prowler,” he said. His expression shifted slightly. “How about in your room?”

Nodding, Prowl stood up from the couch, but paused when he caught a fleeting impression of discomfort from Jazz. “What is it?” he asked.

Jazz looked down at the couch. “You’re not the only one with things you’re workin’ through,” he said, still staring at the couch. “I’ve been thinkin’... Maybe we could get another couch. A different one.” He glanced around the living area. “Maybe rearrange the furniture a bit, too.” He looked up at Prowl, his usual smile back on his lips. “You’re always complainin’ about the glare from the window on yer desk.”

Prowl followed Jazz’s gaze around the room, and a sudden realization bloomed in him. While Prowl had been afraid of the act itself and of harming his lover, Jazz had strong associations with the place where he had been assaulted: their own flat, on furniture they’d owned for vorn.

“Of course, Jazz,” Prowl said, his door wings dipped with his new understanding. He frowned. “We could even look for another place, if new furniture is not sufficient.”

“Nah,” Jazz said. He caught Prowl’s hand and pulled him towards his room. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He grinned at Prowl. “I think just changin’ the scenery should be enough.”

Prowl was not sure whether Jazz suggested they use his room because it was neater than his, or because it would put Prowl more at ease. Either way, Prowl felt calmer just entering the room. Shortly after he had been released from the hospital, Prowl had spent almost two cycles cleaning and reorganizing his desk, and then started on his room. Spinup had not only made a mess of Prowl’s relationship with Jazz and his professional reputation, but he was a slob. Jazz was not the neatest mech to live with, but even he had been taken aback by how slovenly Spinup – in the guise of Prowl – had been.

Settling on the edge of the berth, Prowl looked around with a feeling of satisfaction. All of his belongings were back where they should be. Everything was dusted and clean. His crystal collection, which had been sorely neglected while Spinup controlled him, had been nursed back to health. 

He had fixed this. Now he just had to fix everything else in his life.

Prowl looked up when Jazz lowered himself onto the berth next to him. Jazz smiled at him uncertainly. “So, uh... How did ya want to start this?”

At Jazz’s hesitant words, Prowl suddenly felt a surge of despair. He knew that it leaked into his field, and he knew that Jazz could sense it. He saw Jazz’s smile vanish and be replaced by a frown of concern, but Prowl could not stop the anguish that swirled in his spark.

The image of Jazz howling in agony, helm thrown back and visor dark, flickered across Prowl’s memory, and he flinched away from Jazz.

In what seemed like ages past, there would have been no hesitation. They had fallen into one another perfectly. Their negotiations were for details, not for how to take first steps; their sparks had told them how to do that. But now, Prowl could not hear his spark telling him how to proceed. He did not know where to touch, what would feel good, what he might try. Every possible action seemed fraught with peril, every possible action might be the one that would cause Jazz to scream in pain again.

“What did they do to us?” Prowl gasped, static crackling at the edges of his voice. He let Jazz gather him back in and hold his helm against his chest plate. “This was never so hard. This was never awkward or difficult. This was never so... frightening,” Prowl sobbed. As Jazz gently petted the back of his helm, Prowl wrapped his arms around Jazz as if clinging to a floatation device in one of Earth’s oceans. “Even our first time... It was so easy. We were two pieces that fit together like we were made for each other. Now...” Prowl’s vocalizer cut out for a moment. “Now, we are dancing around each other as if we are strangers.”

“Oh, Prowler, we still fit together just fine, you’ll see,” Jazz murmured. He pressed a kiss into the top of Prowl’s helm as he held him. “We might just have to be careful of the rough edges, but we’ll fit just fine. Neither of us wants to do anything to hurt the other. You’re afraid of hurtin’ me, and I’m...” Jazz pulled a long vent before continuing. “And I’m afraid of my own reactions, of doin’ or sendin’ ya somethin’ that’ll make ya feel like you’re hurtin’ me, or that I’m afraid of ya.” Jazz held Prowl tightly. “You’ve been actin’ like I’m fragile, and I’ve been treatin’ ya like yer a scared petrorabbit. But I’m tougher than I look, and you...” Jazz put a digit under Prowl’s chin and tipped it upwards to look at him. “You’re braver than ya feel.” He smiled at Prowl, and the Praxian could feel certainty swirling through Jazz’s field. “Trust me on that.”

Prowl certainly didn’t feel brave. If anything, he felt like the first time he had been on the receiving end of blaster fire: confused and terrified. He shut his optics and rested his helm on Jazz’s shoulder, his face buried in Jazz’s neck cords. “I do not know if I can do this, Jazz,” he whispered.

He expected to feel disappointment or frustration in Jazz’s field, but all he felt was concern. “A’ight, Prowler,” he said. “We can try again some other time.”

“No!” Prowl said, lifting his helm again. “If I back down now, I do not know when I will have the strength to try again.” It took a huge conscious effort, but he opened his hip port and pulled out his interface cable. With trembling digits, he slipped the cable into Jazz’s hand. “I need to take this chance,” he whispered. “But I need you to help me.”

Jazz looked down at the plug in his digits for a long moment before lifting his visor back to look into Prowl’s face. “Ya sure?” he asked quietly.

Prowl nodded, no longer trusting his vocalizer not to glitch. He pressed his hand into Jazz’s, curling the Polyhexian’s digits around his cord. “Please,” he whispered.

After a seemingly endless moment, Jazz reached up with his other hand and detached his visor. He leaned over to place it on the table beside Prowl’s berth, then looked at Prowl with his pale blue optics. They tipped up at the edges as he smiled. “So ya can see that I ain’t hiding anything from ya,” Jazz said. 

Then Jazz skootched back on the berth, sliding and pulling Prowl along gently until finally they were nestled together. Jazz sat against the back of the berth, cradling Prowl against him, their legs tangled together, while Prowl’s helm rested on his shoulder. Jazz’s hand brushed down Prowl’s back between his door wings. “Comfy?” he asked.

Prowl nodded, then shivered as he felt Jazz roll the end of Prowl’s cable between his digits. With no additional preamble, Jazz slotted the plug into the interface array at his hip. With another fluid motion, he pulled out his own cable and slid it into Prowl’s hip socket.

Instantly, Prowl felt his interface protocols automatically send a single packet of data across the connection. Jazz’s firewalls fell, accepting the packet and initiating a handshake. In a nanoclick, the sequence repeated itself, and with a soft gust of air from his vents, Prowl lowered his own firewalls. 

Both of their processors lay bare to each other, their systems automatically sending pings across the connection to keep it active. “How’re ya doin’?” Jazz asked softly. Prowl felt Jazz’s arms tighten around his waist. “Yer shakin’.”

“I am?” Prowl asked dumbly, then realized Jazz was right. A minute quiver had started in his frame as soon as the connection was established, a vibration that welled up from his very spark. Fear, he realized. But how absurd. The connection was made. Jazz was fine. He was not hurting Jazz in the least. Why was his processor reacting like this? 

Prowl’s thoughts were interrupted by a trickle of comfort that came across the hardline. “It’s all right, Prowler,” Jazz murmured, his hand stroking down Prowl’s back again comfortingly. “I got ya.”

“I know you do,” Prowl said, attempting to burrow deeper into Jazz’s arms. “I do not understand why... Why I feel like this. This should be so...” His vocalizer warbled again, and he clamped his mouth shut to keep it from glitching.

Jazz made a shushing noise. “Let me tell ya about somethin’ I thought about the other day,” he said quietly. “Remember that trip we took with Blue and Hound?”

The sudden non-sequitur stilled Prowl’s spiralling thought process. “Of course,” he said. “How could I forget?” The trip had ended in a spectacular fashion, with Hound and Prowl racing across the plains to rescue their sparkmates before their fuel ran out. 

Jazz laughed. “I mean the first part of the trip... Before I was a clumsy bit-brain and ran myself off the edge of that cliff.” One of Jazz’s digits traced the line of Prowl’s jaw as he talked. “That first night, when ya told the story about the sparkeater?”

“Yes.” Prowl could feel the amusement building in both Jazz’s field, and coming across the connection. A slight charge built up in Prowl’s lines from the emotional exchange, and he shivered at the sensation. “If I remember, none of you were very happy with my story. All of you complained that it was too scary.”

“It was pretty scary, knowin’ that you were tellin’ us about somethin’ that actually happened to ya,” Jazz said. “But do ya remember what I told ya afterwards?”

Prowl nodded, and rested his hand against Jazz’s chest. He could feel the thrum of the Polyhexian’s spark under his palm. “You found the story... intriguing.” 

“I think I actually used the term ‘hot,’” Jazz said. “My brave Prowler, standin’ up to a sparkeater to help save other mechs’ lives. That really got my motor going, ya know.” 

Prowl stiffened as Jazz sent a burst of sensation through the hardline. It was a small, dense packet of information, but contained the memory of Jazz’s arousal after hearing Prowl’s story. “Yes,” Prowl said, a smile finally forming on his lips. “I remember. You were insistent. And...” Another memory of that night and the next morning came back to Prowl, and he cringed even as he laughed. “And you were quite loud, if I recall correctly.”

Suddenly Prowl froze, realizing that he was broadcasting his own memory of the charge he’d felt that night across their hardline. But before he was able to slam down the gates on his transmission, Jazz’s chest shook as he laughed, jostling Prowl’s helm slightly. “I was,” he said. One of his hands trailed down Prowl’s shoulder and brushed back and forth at his door wing’s hinge, sending pleasurable waves trembling through Prowl’s frame, and the Praxian melted into the gentle touch. “And ya were just horrified when Blue told ya that him and Hound heard us goin’ at it.”

Prowl nodded, closing his optics as Jazz continued petting him. “Primus, I was mortified,” he said. “Mostly because I know exactly how loud you can get when you are enjoying yourself. But that’s not always the case.” Without thinking, he sent a flash of amusement across the hardline. He paused. When Jazz did not tense but instead just returned a questioning pulse, Prowl relaxed again. “I remember a night when you were able to keep your... excitement to a much lower volume.”

“Oh?” Jazz shifted his legs, sliding his calf strut against Prowl’s shin. “When was that?”

“You were playing at that music festival on the edge of Iacon,” Prowl said. “You and Blaster teamed up with Soundwave, of all mechs...”

“Aaah, I do remember that,” Jazz said, a flare of recognition lighting up his field. “Slag, I gotta figure out how to get the three of us together again. Those were some amazin’ sounds we made.” Prowl felt the satisfaction from Jazz at just how good the music had been.

“Your voice,” Prowl continued, his hand drifting lower so that his digits could tease at the transformation seam at Jazz’s hip. “Your voice was amazing that night. You did something to it, something in the sub-harmonics. You rumbled. You **growled** ,” he said, shivering again as he recalled the feral, gravelly sounds Jazz had made as a counterpoint to the layered bass and melody that the two host mechs created.

“I almost never sing for heavy tunes like that,” Jazz said. “I love the sound, but it burns out my vocalizer for cycles afterwards. But they asked me nicely.” The musician laughed, and Prowl thrilled at the sparkling sound. Jazz lowered his lips and pressed a kiss into the top of Prowl’s helm. “As soon as ya met me backstage, I knew that the music had done somethin’ to ya.”

“Not just the music.” Prowl was dimly aware of his rising charge, vaguely realized that he was letting it flow from him into Jazz and was accepting it back through the connection. But Prowl’s attention was on his memory, how his optics were focused on Jazz’s figure, gyrating under the multicoloured lights of the stage in time to the driving beat. He remembered the deep, spark-shaking sounds coming from Jazz’s mouth. “It was you. You moved like... like a flickering flame. And hearing you...”

“As soon as ya saw me come off the stage, ya dragged me back behind those speaker cases,” Jazz said. He sent Prowl the memory of the intent look in Prowl’s optics as he pulled Jazz behind a stack of crates, out of the line of traffic in the backstage area. “Ya pushed me up against the crate. Yer hands were all over me, Prowl.”

“I remember,” Prowl whispered. “I wanted to devour you. I wanted to touch every part of you.” He opened his optics and tipped his helm up to look at Jazz.

Jazz’s pale optics looked down at him, and a wide smile lit up his face. He brushed a digit up Prowl’s chin, and sparks trailed from him to Prowl at the gentle touch, revealing how much charge had built up between them. “Ya did,” he said. “Ya jacked into me right there, where anyone coulda seen us, and ya showed me exactly how ya felt.”

Warmth spread through Prowl’s frame, and he suddenly realized that his cooling fans had kicked on at some point. Jazz’s were running too, sending hot air into the room around them. “I did,” Prowl said, his vocalizer quavering. He pulled in a deep cooling vent of air, and sent Jazz another burst of his memory of that encounter.

Pressing Jazz back into the crate, pinning him in place as he ran his hands up the musician’s back. His lips mashed against Jazz’s, their glossa entwined. Jazz’s digits, their tips transformed into picks for playing, sliding down the back of his door wings. The thought that anyone could discover them. Jazz’s miraculously silent howl. And a spiralling charge, rising in them both until it crested in a cascade of sparks and overrides, leaving them both strutless and gasping in a pile on the backstage floor. 

Prowl suddenly realized that he was not just remembering his lips against Jazz’s, but that it was happening. He clung to Jazz, trembling as he realized what was happening but not wanting or willing to stop the overload from cresting in them.

It was not one of the breaker-blowing, system-resetting overloads that they were recalling together. Instead of being a tidal wave sweeping them away, this was a gentle surge, carrying them both along in a flood of dispelling charge woven through with affection and care.

When the charge slowly grounded through them into the berth, they both sat still for a long moment. Then, Jazz brushed his hand against Prowl’s back once more, soothing the slight tremble that he felt there, a tremble that had more to do with pleasure than with fear. “Are ya all right, Prowler?” he asked, even though he could have pinged their connection to get a direct, honest answer directly from Prowl’s neural net.

“Yes.” And Prowl couldn’t stop a small laugh from bubbling out of him. He had done it. They had faced the demon that had been perched on Prowl’s shoulder ever since he had been freed from his mental prison. “I am all right, Jazz,” he said quietly. Finally pulling away from Jazz slightly to look at him more directly, he smiled. “Thanks to you,” Prowl whispered. He reached out and cradled Jazz’s cheek in his hand.

“You did all the hard work,” Jazz said, placing his hand over Prowl’s. “I just showed ya that there was nothin’ for ya to be afraid of.”

“There **was** something for me to fear,” Prowl said. “Something for both of us to fear. But... Like you said. We got through it together.”

“Always,” Jazz said, and leaned in to kiss Prowl once more.


	8. Epilogue

They had just finished setting the sixth post for the new paddock when Hound stood up suddenly and turned towards the road, looking for just a moment like a cyberhound sensing prey. “Blue,” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the stand of crystals that hid their house from passers-by. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“Oh!” Bluestreak slapped his hand to his helm. “I totally forgot to tell you. Jazz and Prowl asked if we’d be home today, and I said yes. They wanted to drop by. I’m sorry, it totally slipped my memory.”

Hound relaxed slightly as two alt modes, both white and black, drove around the crystal stand and made their way towards them. Jazz transformed first with his typical flourish, while Prowl’s transformation was more staid and reserved, possibly because of the object he was holding in his hands when his transformation sequence had finished. “Jazz! Prowl! It’s good to see you,” Hound called, walking towards them.

Jazz greeted them first, gripping Hound’s forearm and then Bluestreak’s. “Hey, mechs,” he said, stepping back to stand next to Prowl. “It’s real good to see you again. And under better circumstances this time,” he added, placing an arm around Prowl’s waist.

Bluestreak studied the set of Prowl’s door wings. The other Praxian held himself stiffly, almost formally, with his back strut ramrod straight and his door wings held wide. But Bluestreak noticed the almost imperceptible tremble in his wings that betrayed a deep unease. Bluestreak took a deep vent and stepped into a role he was very familiar with: talking to cover awkward silences while other mechs got their mental footing. “It’s really good to see you, Prowl. We’ve been following the trial closely on the news; it’s been the top story for almost three orbital cycles! It’s almost like they were dragging it out to make it as long as possible, but I know they were just trying to make sure it was fair. Although whether those glitches deserve ‘fair’ is a different question, especially Spinup. I can’t believe there are mechs around who think doing something like that is all right, even if they think it’s justified. We heard the sentencing was going to be today... Is that why you came out today? Oh, slag, I hope I’m not upsetting you by talking about this...” Bluestreak suddenly shut his mouth, glancing between Jazz and Prowl quickly.

“It is quite all right, Bluestreak,” Prowl said. As Bluestreak had hoped, his wings had stopped trembling as Bluestreak spoke while he tried to get a word in edgewise. “Yes, the sentencing was earlier today, so you may not have seen the news feeds.” Prowl looked at Jazz, then lowered his door wings and helm.

Jazz’s voice was rough, but his field was rich with satisfaction. “Hardhelm and Blueprint both got 300 vorn prison sentences. Spinup was sentenced to spark extraction for no less than 450 vorn.” He pulled Prowl tighter against his hip, and looked at Bluestreak, his visor bright. “He ain’t gonna talk his way outta that.”

Beside Bluestreak, Hound’s engine revved quietly. “Good,” he said, his face set in an uncharacteristic scowl. “After hearing what that glitch did, I don’t think we could have asked for anything more.” Then the green mech frowned. “Are you guys doing all right, then?”

Prowl finally looked up and nodded. He glanced at Jazz before saying, “We are working through what happened. We have both had a lot of support, both from our friends and professionals. With that help, we are doing much better.” He smiled at Jazz.

Jazz returned Prowl’s smile, then let go of his hip. “But that brings us to why we’re here! We wanted to thank everyone who helped me out... Helped us both out, I mean. And you two were the best, steppin’ up when I needed someplace to stay.”

Hound frowned and waved his hand as Jazz removed a datapad from his compartments. “You weren’t any trouble, Jazz, and we didn’t mind helping out. We actually like having mechs stay with us once in a while, and you did your fair share of work around the place. You saw how much we have to do just to keep the place up,” he said, gesturing at the fence posts he and Bluestreak had just been working on.

“When I say that this is the least we could do, my mech, I mean it,” Jazz said, handing the datapad to Bluestreak. “This is for you, Blue. It’s got all the recipes I showed you while I was here, plus a bunch of other ones I think you’d like.”

Bluestreak thumbed through the datapad. As he skimmed the titles of the recipes, he felt his door wings flutter as his interest grew. “Oh, the copper squares were great. And the cobalt ripple! And the blue fizz high-grade shots? I loved those!” He looked back up at Jazz, grinning broadly. “This is great, Jazz! Thank you so much!”

Jazz stepped back to stand beside Prowl and smiled. “I knew ya wanted to surprise Hound with somethin’ special. If ya need help with any of those or got a question, just give me a holler.” He flashed his visor in a wink towards Hound as he spoke.

While they were speaking, Prowl had been looking down at the object he cradled in his hands. He took a step towards Hound and held out his hands. “And Hound... This is for you.”

Hound took the clear glass box from Prowl and peered into it. Bluestreak felt the green mech’s field flare with astonishment as he stared up at Prowl, then back down at the box. “Prowl... Is this... Is this what I think it is?”

Prowl’s door wings fluttered, oh so imperceptibly, as he smiled. “That is a bonsai version of a _Pinus longaeva_ from Earth, more commonly known as –“ 

“A bristlecone pine,” Hound breathed, turning the clear box back and forth in his hands. “Prowl, I know exactly where you got this from, and... You really didn’t need to do this.”

Bluestreak ducked his helm to look into the box. A miniature conifer, no longer than Hound’s forearm, grew in a bowl of rock and pebbles. Bluestreak looked up at Hound. “So it’s a little mini tree?”

“There’s a nursery in Iacon City, Proudmane’s Organics, that sells these, and other stuff from around the galaxy. That’s where you got it from, isn’t it?” Hound asked. When Prowl nodded, Hound turned the box again, staring into it reverently. “They sell all sorts of organic stuff, but... It’s so expensive! And it needs carbon dioxide tablets and water and fertilizer, and... Prowl, I can’t accept this,” Hound said, making an aborted motion to give the miniature greenhouse back to Prowl.

Prowl held up a hand. “No, Hound. It is yours. I know how much you miss Earth, and all the greenery there. This tree should live for at least fifteen vorn, and possibly as long as sixty, but you can also start new cuttings from it if you wish. And...” He pulled another smaller box out of his compartments and handed it to Bluestreak. “This contains three vorn worth of all the materials you will need to keep it alive. All you need to do is keep it trimmed and shaped.”

Hound looked at the small green conifer in his hands, and then looked back up at Prowl. His field oscillated rapidly between disbelief and appreciation. “I... I don’t know what to say, Prowl,” he said finally.

Bluestreak put his arm around Hound’s shoulders and planted a quick kiss on the side of his helm. “Then say ‘thank you,’ you silly mech,” he said. 

Hound nodded, then shook his helm, and then laughed. “Thank you. This is so amazing. And unexpected!” He brought the glass box up to his optics as if examining every needle on the tiny tree. 

After giving Hound another squeeze, Bluestreak turned back to Jazz and Prowl with a quick wave of his door wings. “Why don’t you come up to the house? I’ll get us all some mid-grade, Hound can decide where he’s going to put his gift, and we can all sit on the porch and talk.”

In short order they were all sitting on the wide porch of the house, cubes of mid-grade in hand, while Bluestreak regaled them with a story of one of the groups of upper-caste mechs from Velocitron that they had taken on a guiding tour. “I’m sure it’s just a cultural difference,” Bluestreak said after explaining how their customers seems to have no interest in actually stopping and seeing the things that they had on their itinerary. “But after the tenth time of them pretty much only slowing down long enough to eke out an obligatory ooh or ahh before revving their engines waiting for us to get moving again, we were both getting a little tired of just racing from point to point. So Hound suggested that they all pose together in front of the crystal spire so he could take an image capture of all of them together.” Bluestreak grinned at Hound as he recalled the incident. “Well, you’d think that he had asked them to remove a limb or something. Their group leader flared his plating all out and said, ‘If we wanted to pose for photos everywhere we went, we would have hired a photographer to come with us!’” Bluestreak said in his best imitation of a posh Velocitronian accent. 

They all laughed, but Bluestreak’s optics were on Prowl. For the first time since they had arrived, Prowl’s door wings had relaxed from their formal stiffness, and he smiled into his cube. Then, Bluestreak’s spark lightened when he heard a quiet laugh come from Prowl’s vocalizer. He noticed Jazz glance at Prowl as he laughed, then looked back to Bluestreak and gave him a tiny nod.

Maybe Prowl really was starting to feel better, after all.

“So do you two have any big trips planned?” Hound asked. “We never did go on that second trip we talked about.”

“Slag, you’re right,” Jazz said with a grimace. “We kept meaning to get somethin’ arranged, but stuff kept comin’ up and...” He trailed off.

“The next thing you know, whole vorn have gone by,” Bluestreak finished for him. He nodded. “We know the feeling. It’s like life has a way of getting away from you.” He glanced at Hound. “We’ve had all kinds of things we’ve been meaning to do, and just haven’t gotten around to it.” Bluestreak looked back at Jazz and Prowl. “I guess that sometimes, if there’s something you really want to do, you just have to throw everything aside and just do it, and slag whatever gets in your way.”

Jazz looked at Prowl, who nodded. “Funny you should say that,” Jazz said. “With Prowl not workin’, we’ve had lots of time to talk ‘bout what we want to do next... Where we see ourselves at various points in the future.” He reached out and grabbed Prowl’s hand. “And after everything that happened, we decided that we could both do with a change of scenery.” He grinned at Bluestreak and Hound. “Somethin’ a little more permanent than a campin’ trip... ‘Though, I’m still real interested in takin’ another one with you two.”

“In forty-three vorn, the restriction I have against being able to advocate for specific actions or results will be lifted,” Prowl said. “After that, I will be free to move and act as any other mech.” His door wings lifted slightly as he looked at Jazz and smiled. “We have decided that as soon as my sentence is served, we will move to New Praxus.” 

“Praxus!” Bluestreak froze. He was overcome briefly by illusory scents and sounds of burning metal, explosions, and screams, and he shut his optics tightly as if that could keep out the visions. Then Bluestreak felt a hand on his leg, and he opened his optics to see Hound looking at him. His field twined through his, supporting him with strength and comfort. Bluestreak gave his sparkmate a grateful smile, then looked back at Prowl. “ **New** Praxus. I can’t wait to see what it’ll look like.”

Prowl had been frowning at Bluestreak’s momentary fugue, but relaxed when the other Praxian spoke. “It will not be the same as it was,” Prowl said quietly. “As with other rebuilding efforts, the goal is to create a place where new memories can be made, not to recreate what was once there.” His door wings tipped upwards, then fluttered down in a very old-fashioned gesture for an apology. 

“Like Iacon City. I know. It’s totally different from what was there before the war,” Bluestreak said. He smiled at Prowl, returning his wing gesture with one of acceptance. “I really am looking forward to seeing New Praxus, once it’s built.” Taking a deep vent, he banished the remaining ghosts into the corners of his processor where they lived. “And moving there! That’s a huge step. What are you guys gonna do?”

“Based on previous project plans, the city will likely just be starting to accept new residents in fifty vorn. Jazz has aspirations for opening his own club,” Prowl said, giving Jazz a fond smile.

Jazz laughed. “Not that anything’s wrong with Visages. Mirage runs a great place there. But I’d like to see what I can do on my own. Put my own mark on a place,” he said. Leaning forward, he held up a hand as if to hide his next words from Prowl, but stage-whispered, “I’ve even put out some feelers to see if Mixmaster might be interested in runnin’ the bar for me.”

“He will not be interested,” Prowl said flatly.

Jazz turned a dazzling smile on Prowl. “Ya just wait until I’ve had a chance to work my magic on him. And maybe get you to talk to him for me!”

As Prowl laughed and shook his helm, Bluestreak said, “And what are you going to do Prowl? I guess city administration would be hiring around that time.”

Prowl’s door wings flicked once. “After giving it much thought, I believe that I have had enough office work to last me for quite some time. Throughout the war and after, my life has been consumed with data pads and schedules and minute details. This most recent experience has shown me that perhaps it is time for me to step out from behind my desk once in a while.” He finished his cube of mid-grade and set it aside. “I have already applied for the New Praxus Enforcers, and hope to be in their number as soon as the force is commissioned.”

“An Enforcer!” Bluestreak grinned. “Prowl, that’s great! That’s going to be a huge change for you.”

“Not really,” Prowl said, ducking his helm to partially hide his smile. “It is what I was constructed to do. During the war my talents were best used in other ways, but now...” He pulled air in through his vents, his door wings rising slightly. “I think it’s the best way I can both stay true to myself, but also give myself a new challenge.”

“I think yer gonna be great at it,” Jazz said, reaching over and taking Prowl’s hand in his, then looked back up at Hound and Bluestreak. “You two are gonna have to come visit us, even if we have to hire ya to get ya out there.”

Hound laughed. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said. The green mech looked at Bluestreak and smiled at him. “I know I’d like to see the new city.” 

Bluestreak could feel Hound’s field, gently brushing against his with a questioning note. Bluestreak returned the caress with a reassuring touch, and nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that too,” he said, swallowing the old fears that had risen in his intake again. It wouldn’t be Praxus, which he’d last seen as a smoking ruin thick with the rusting remains of the dead. It would be a new city, with new inhabitants making new lives for themselves.

Bluestreak picked up the bottle of mid-grade and poured everyone another drink. Then he lifted his cube, a smile on his lips. “To New Praxus,” he said, holding his door wings high. “And to new beginnings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And that’s the end. For now. :)
> 
> I have to admit, I didn’t think I was going to finish this story. I started working on it right after I finished [Anamnesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554080/chapters/25949106), which means that I began writing it in August 2017. But I got stuck with a problem with the plot (which I figured out how to fix) and then got blocked on actually writing it.
> 
> I almost abandoned it. I thought that if I didn’t want to work on it, maybe it wasn’t a story worth writing. But I kept the files around, poking at them from time to time, hoping that inspiration would come back.
> 
> It never did, really. I wrote a whole bunch of other stuff, and kept shoving this story to the side. I was sure that my lack of inspiration meant that there was something terribly wrong with the story. 
> 
> That’s when I made a promise to myself that I’d just get the damn thing done and posted. I was very concerned about posting it, specifically because it was so dark compared to my other stories, and I wasn’t sure how it was going to be received. It’s a story about betrayal and abuse, but it’s also about trust and healing, and learning to lean on your friends when you really need help. 
> 
> So… Thank you for all the comments and kudos I’ve been getting on it. It really did give me the confidence that this was a story worth telling, and a story worth finishing. I don’t think I would have been able to finish it without all the feedback I’ve been receiving. <3
> 
> I have a few side stories in mind for this story, sort of like what I did with the ["extras" for Anamnesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730966/chapters/26431410). Once I get them written, they’ll be posted under the title Pulling Strings: Extras in this series.
> 
> Thank you again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> **Legend**
> 
>  
> 
> [[hardline communication]]  
> [[ _hardline emotions_ ]]  
> ::comms:
> 
> klik: a minute-ish  
> groon: an hour-ish  
> cycle: a day-ish  
> deca-cycle: 10 cycles, so about a week and a half-ish  
> orbital-cycle: a month-ish  
> vorn: works out to 80-ish of our years


End file.
